A wooden house stands above the ivy
In a timberland of halcyon, sheltered in verdigris
Sheathed in tendrils of mid efflorescence

No picket fences can be found here
No mahogany furniture, nor clipped briers
Neither mundane suburbs or talk gone meander

Care you look? Its nothing special; just a wooden house
Of quiescent rooms filled to the crest between chipped veneer
Resides unfinished ballads, scratched parchment, and a copper lumineer

In the attic seized in cirrus vertigo, a gathering of birds
In the basement cloaked in hindering webs, a ring is forgotten on the sill
In the yard enclosed in an azure-lit heathen, a fawn breathes celestial

The wayfaring wind hushes the world; breathing into this house
The rain caresses bruised skin; an offering of revival
The welcoming night cradles the silence; a hymn for dreams enkindled

"Of whom does this house belong to?"
A clicking of tongues and raucous calumny echo through town
The blatant thirst for strife quenches their aridly barren frowns

So, blinded by verdant rage; "we'll burn the wooden house down."
Unknowingly, their disarray thinking stains their judgement to see
The comparison between an abiding creek to a bone-dry ravine

Thus here the wooden house remains; ashes to dust
The birds have fled, the ring lost beneath rotted carcass
The wind has ceased, the rain scrapes bloody skin in insidious darkness

And as I search these coal cinders and blackened pages
I trip over a charred astral design, buried beneath the brazier
And find arcane in brimstone my copper lumineer

And I saw light.