The man stepped into his childhood home,
Like a thief breaking in,
He had never belonged there,
So it felt wrong, a sin.
Now that his parents' light had been quenched
And he'd been granted access to this place,
He traced his hands over the mud-room bench.
He explored the house, touching
And feeling
The many things his parents had owned,
Things that left his mind blown.
A bible, a cross, a portrait of daily devotions,
A sad smile touched his face,
What a notion.
These people who hated him
And had hung him out to dry,
Had convinced themselves they were justified,
Before they died.
Before their bodies blended with nature;
Disappearing into the very soil,
They no longer had to remember the toil.
It was fresh in his mind.
His fingers left the bible,
And that was the last time.
He wouldn't be back,
He'd never think of them again,
They had caused nothing but pain
For little Ben.