Weeds got there first

The walls ached with their knowledge.
While the eyes of the portraits licked across the skin.
Of all those souls who dwelled within.
And even this was barely acknowledged.
For life climbed up to the ceiling.
Wrapped around each feeling.
And slithered and slunk under skin.
But the sun had its day, and blistered the wallpaper.
Bringing tears to the eyes of the young.
Who wished to bury the sun.
In the deep soil of their souls.
The petal parts and the pith.
Of the flowers and the myth.
Of which we cannot control.
And the house still stands, and the grounds still shudder.
Promising a life, unlike no other.
That blooms and ebbs like the stretching seasons.
And climbs to heaven, for most godly reasons.
To meet the maker, and the cultivator.
Basking like the wheat in the field.
Forgetting the devil, and his own dry thirst.
Ignoring that the weeds got there first.

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