Biting words from that tongue so alike to a whip
Filled what had once been a home of life and laughter.
Each scathing syllable sought to silence a giggle
And the halls were left with not a sound to echo.
There was a beast confined to the attic,
Whose voice grew hoarse as it pulled against restraints.
Contusions bloomed like the flowers that had wilted long ago
And each fallen petal made its cantankerous nature harder to suppress.
The words burnt like embers as a great roar set alight
What I was too young to remember ever being a home.
Crimson dancers filled the space that had felt to so empty
And I allowed their vermillion companions to consume me.
It is uninhabitable, as no home should be,
Ashes without a phoenix to redeem them.
Those same words will berate you, blame you,
As though you had made them build the home only for it to be razed
For words, blind and unfeeling, cannot tell
When each scathing syllable ignites a new crimson dancer.