By: C. W. Baker

The gigantic house

With more rooms than you can count

Stands alone. Like them.


There were three young children who lived in a house

With mommy and daddy happily espoused

But trouble brewed behind daddy’s eyes

He wanted to win and youth was the prize. 


He left and he partied far into the night

While mommy said nothing and stayed out of sight

He raged and screamed against age and pain

Trying to grasp a lost past fame


He wanted it younger, prettier, new

First the car, then the house, and finally mommy too. 

The tears were short lived as he raged in the night

For what he’d become was a terrible sight


He was smart as a whip but it was all lost 

Among the petty and banal that his life was cost

He found with a start he couldn’t grow old

Just irrelevant and lost a superfluous troll


And the children they watched but couldn’t understand

Trying to find their lost father In the empty old man. 

They vied for affection that he could never give

He loved only himself, for nothing else could he live. 


He lived in glass towers that no one could reach

Never noticing that nothing was under his feet

Living on hot air, a veneer of celebrity

With parties, and booze and women a plenty. 


To watch from the outside, to judge him so

Is as hypocritical as a raven chastising a crow

He could be happy, his life fulfilled. 

But I hear his children beg, and see the tears they have spilled. 


I stand as a foreigner who was never invited

To spy on his life, most intimate and private

I don’t speak, I just watch cradling their heads

As I tell them nice stories and put them to bed. 


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ST.ART Magazine