House Of The Dead Poem by Carolyn Brunelle
House Of The Dead
The rooms have quieted
as bored adults fell to slumber
only mean little children
can be heard giggling
from behind closed doors
taking pot shots
playing hurtful games.
It's really a complete shame
there is so little life left
in the house anymore;
apathy, a raging vine
that chokes out the light.
Perhaps in dreams
a window may open
to renewal and evolution
where creativity and joy can return
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/29/2026 9:05:55 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
