In the house upon the hill,

Where the wildflowers bloom;

There upon that hill,

Floats a murky gloom,

Stifling human will,

In the presence of swift doom.

In the house resides,

A world unto its’ own,

Where each man goes and hides,

Their every sigh and moan,

Away from judging eyes;

And that piercing undertone.

Can’t you hear it ringing?

Ringing, day and night…

Like a bee which keeps on stinging,

And causes lasting fright;

Through the air it’s winging,

Bearing pains no man can right.

Seek the house upon the hill,

Gray and worn with age,

For there upon that hill,

Is a safe and lasting cage,

Where you may hide until,

You lose the pain and outrage.

The inside walls are white and cold,

Lacking empathy or affection,

And once inside it takes a-hold;

Your soul feels deep rejection,…

Though as you will be told,

“It’s all for your own protection!”

In the house upon the hill,

The wildflowers are in bloom,

And are much too wild in will,

So confined to their room,

And told they must hold still,

Or growth will be their doom.

For flowers have a way,

Of drawing bees and such,

And when they bloom one day,

They draw abuse and touch;

The only other way,

Is to never live too much.

Hide in the house on the hill,

Where wildflowers bloom;

For there upon that hill,

They will lock you in your room,

And take away your free will,

‘Til the day you’re placed in the tomb.

K. Aldaya, 6/26/17

*For all those whose beauty was locked away in this life. RIP.

Picture: http://www.wildlifephotographytips.com/black-and-white-flower-photography.html