Isn’t it strange how a house,
Always looks so calm and serene,
When the majority of our lives,
Transpires behind the scene.
A glorious entity of tranquility,
With barbed wire all around,
No reason to escape this place,
From the lovely, fortified ground.
Inside the walls covered with pictures,
People smile from ear to ear,
Though if one would look more closely,
Each pair of eyes are quite austere.
The silent echo of the serenity,
Bouncing off of every guise,
From secrecy to suppression,
The peace feels like endless sighs.
On the rare occasion of a visit,
From a friend or perhaps a comrade,
The inside is scrubbed of all ill-will,
No sense of any facade.
One may say why emphasize tears,
When there are smiles to mask it all,
As the children in the house grow silent,
And some deteriorate and slowly fall.
So the people in the house stay quiet,
As they go on with their merry life,
Doors shut tight and curtains drawn,
Unable to discern joy from strife.
Isn’t it strange how a house,
Always looks so calm and serene,
When the majority of our lives,
Transpires behind the scene.
About the Creator
Basya Penn
Poetry is my therapy
Check out my published book, Paradox by Basya Penn.
Find it on the Bookleaf Publishing store and on Amazon.
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