The House

The house is indicator of souls that linger there,
The baser inclinations, the habits that oblige.
It also whispers of ideals and saintly enterprise,
Gives silent witness to the struggles not to compromise.

Complacency is in the couch, remote control on hand.
You don’t like what you see? Don’t get up, simply click.
With hundreds of alternatives, your wish is their command,
Your consciousness consumed in the tumult of your wits.

The closets and the drawers, especially with keys,
Are places where you keep your secrets, hide the painful truth.
They could be filled with shattered dreams or with hypocrisies,
Hidden from the scrutiny of that well-meaning sleuth.

The windows frame the hope to look upon a brighter dawn.
They welcome in the challenges and the unexpected,
But won’t provide a thing with shutters closed and curtains drawn.
Without the natural light the power of sight will be neglected.

The bed is a refuge where the aching of the hours
Is eased into a placid state, where thoughts are etherized.
As any pleasure it could become the dragon which devours
The little time we have for God, His praise to glorify.

The kitchen is the laboratory, therein the mighty task
To provide the daily sustenance, with outright creativity.
To ward off all temptations from a fast-food siren blast,
To balance health and pleasure, the vapid and the savory.

The dining table placed to greet friends and family,
To nourish them and demonstrate a most heart-felt affection.
Reminds you that beyond the door there is community;
The board could be extended for a heavenly reception.

The house is ready to adapt to new inhabitants.
It also bends to fit the transformations you’ll endure.
The gathering aura of self-indulgence and munificence
Will permeate the walls and give the place your signature.