Once there was a house on top of a hill.
A small house with big windows. Strange was the house that had no doors.
There was a small boy in this house.
He would look out the window and stare at the world.
The smiles and happiness all around, at the happy children who frolicked and fawned, the flowers, the sun, the butterflies and birds.
All just a sight but not to hold on. Strange was the house that had no doors.
There was a small boy in this house.
Who found solace in this home. It was dark and muddy with no one around.
He once had friends. Some stayed the spring, some withered the storms.
They would talk through the window and could not stay long. Strange was the house that had no doors.
This house was his own. This house is now home.
With nowhere to go. No place he belonged. He was all alone.
