Mourning Skies

Painted

This town is painted
Each door has a mark of uncertainty
Each wall is soaked with words we never spoke
Every pair of eyes
Is stained red
With tears we never shed

This house is ravaged
The halls can echo every scream
And every fight
The floorboards couldn't creak and moan
Enough to drown out the screams from lives
They hold beneath them

And the ceilings are bare
Because no one ascended here
Only slipped into the cold grasp of earth
Back to the dirt

But every town is painted
With marks of history and pain
The problem is
The good times are never painted
They are never photographed
In the rings of a tree
That build a log home
They are not etched
They are not soaked in the curtains
Nor are they absorbed in all around them

We cling to the good times
And they follow us
We only seem to lose them
In the paint