She looked so lost in her very own home:
I had never seen such a thing before.
A house, not a home, so cold, in which we roam.
Me, a fire, melting ice, I restore;
Opening up the walls, the water will pour.
The tears shed will never be forgotten,
The structure there had become quite rotten.
Gone are the walls she often hid behind,
Gone are the full eyes, their pain to soften.
She grows, her flames feeding mine. Love is kind.
