Revolving Door

Walk into this house and you'll feel the tension,
with ghosts in the floorboards and not to mention
the skeletons hidden in the closets,
withering away under more deposits.

I feel the cracks and splinters under my toes,
the eggshells of forgotten woes.
You'd feel them too if you were here,
you'd feel the ache of silenced fear.

This is the house of senseless fights,
of selfishness and small delights.
I love and hate this place at once,
the place I often play the dunce.

But do not think I hate the people;
I hate the ruins, the fallen steeple
that left the standards on the floor,
and let the wicked in once more.

In and out and to and fro,
The people often come and go,
and come and go and come again,
no telling who or why or when.

There's plenty chaos to make you sick.
When they're the fire, you're the wick.
This is the house where up is down:
To save yourself, you have to drown.

This is the place where the good are punished,
their deeds ignored and the wicked are lavished
with love and attention no matter the cost.
(And they wonder why I've felt so lost.)

So come to this house, our arms will be open,
no matter your background, conscience, or burden.
This house is one I can love no more,
the house with the revolving door.