A burned down house.
The desecrated remains of a life,
charred and broken
standing silent in the night,
soaked in the tears of lost memories.

A burned down house
once filled with love
and bursting laughter,
Unbridled joy and hope
reduced to an empty shell.

A burned down house.
Remnants of strength and safety
of warmth and protection
reduced to a broken frame.
Stark and stoic.

A burned down house
holds no value, has no worth
to anyone who never loved it.
Potential wasted, future destroyed.
No hope for restoration.

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I am not a burned down house.

You cannot demolish my spirit
like so many shattered windows
and battered walls.
I am not ruined.
I cannot be replaced.

My body is not a charred structure
scheduled for a wrecking ball
waiting to be replaced by something
newer, more solidly built,
less flammable.

A fire burns within but it is a light,
a warm hearth when fog rolls in
swirling dim and damp,
creeping shadows stymied
by flames of stubborn optimism.

The house might need new insulation;
there are drafty windows
and the porch has an odd tilt to it,
but the house is a home
and the owner kind of likes the place.

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