this house is like an empty shaft,

a cocoon when the butterfly has left.

i am waiting, staring at the floor.

[did anyone ever live here before?]

 

this house has walls of sand and stone,

crumbling holes where punches were thrown.

these rooms are excuses for black holes.

[did this house ever support a soul?]

 

and where did the occupants go?

 

'in this house,' they say, 'she walks the halls,

she tries to fit the spaces between the walls.

she walks the corridors alone.'

[and this house is not a home.]

 

there are webs and spiders in the corners,

along the house's lonely borders.

you can hear its creaking in the night.

[there must have been quite the fight.]

 

and why does no one listen to its plight?

 

there are echoes off the walls,

there are endless, endless halls.

in this house there's not a soul.

[you are left out in the cold.]

 

trapped in this house, i await,

some sort of way i can escape.

locked in this house, i've lost the key.

[we are trapped inside of me.]

 

and just what is it that you can't see?

 

in this house, the walls stained red,

you can see the blood of the dead.

in this house you're all alone.

[and this heart is not a home.]