Have You Ever Seen the Sun Rise at Midnight?

Home

A home is a house, but it is also so much more. Perhaps that hadn't really sunk in when you were living there. The days shaped by heavy clouds that cast shadows over the ivy that climbed up the aging walls and the hid the effect that the large pair of windows could have had in the grand study.

Now you could see it though. How much this worn, old, dusty building meant to you. But now was too late.

     Now, here out in the dark of night, sitting before the building, on your knees. The light of a thousand flickering flames danced up and down the ivy, twining about the stone, the windows glowed brightly with the brilliance of flames, just barely you could see the dull brownish hues of the study shine a beautiful golden brown as the light hit it, before slowly more and more was charred, devoured into a scorched black, and the roof crumbled inward over it all, first in bits and pieces, then it fell in its entirety with a mighty thump. Flames flared outwards and one of the stone walls collapsed, pieces of others following.

    Like the place in your very soul where that child-like innocence once slept.

There was nothing you could come back to anymore. Nothing even to shelter you from the rain.

       Sitting there you only stared at the dying old house which for so many years had been all that you had known and felt sick, but a piece of you, a piece of you felt the tiniest sliver of relief. 

          So there you sat, undecided what to do, what to say, alone in the woods; the others, those you had once called your brothers and sisters, had left long ago just as you once had.

This is short, I am tired. Poetry... I think. -T.A.L.A.