The door to his self was left ajar,
Rusted and cracked,
It creaked to happiness as he entered and made way through the dark.
He overlooked through the window of his heart,
Broken to the dreams,
The stale air flowed silently
As he made way through the cobwebs of his thoughts,
The wall of resistance had crumbled to the thunderstorm.
His childhood voice echoed across the hall,
The tilted painting hanging on a hollow wall.
All the secrets hidden by the paints and plasters lay damped,
downtrodden on the floor,
As he walked into his house,
On a silent hill,
By the seashore.