Shattered glass, amass.
Sharp edges.

In a broken home,
the shingles fall at will.

And I, you, my love,
I'll suffer the blue siding.
Stained and weathered,
burned and scarred;

the tired bodies strewn across the yard.

A broken home to poetry,
and poetry to lust,
and love lives in the memories,
to melodies,
to dust.

It's those eyes I'll never trust, but I do love to see them there

Chanting, don't open that door,
we've been there before,

we've muddied the floor.