A House that was a Home

Here I sit in the cold and lonely dark.
There is no fire to light my way or keep me warm.
In a house that is not a home,
without the children and no one to love.
The night creeps across my soul,
chilling me, keeping me cold.

The winter has set into the mountains bringing a cold
draft. The night despite the white snow is dark
and lonely. I hear voices on the wind. The souls
of the lost are crying out for comfort and a warm
place to reside. They are seeking the love
of those lost to time, and house that was their home.

The place I live was once called a home
for those long departed beings. The cold
wind blows across the mountains,  trying to erase the love
of memories past.  Even the light of day cannot banish the dark
within. The fire in the hearth sheds no warmth
for them . The beings are trapped wandering as a lost soul.

I hear a child in the room upstairs. Her soul
lost in time, living in the room that was her home.
The fire here is to keep her warm,
even though her presence brings the cold.
I keep a light on, because she is afraid of the dark.
She is alone and lost to those she loves.

I smell the pipe smoke that the father loves.
I am sitting here where his soul
resides. His fire fading out the dark,
giving light to my house that was his home.
His arms embrace me making me cold,
I shiver and snuggle trying to get warm.

I feel the heat from the kitchen warming,
working to fill the house with love.
The mother is baking the bread that is cold,
trying to rekindle the flame of her soul.
The kitchen is the place she feels most at home,
with shadows around echoing in  the dark.

In my house that was their home, I feel their souls around me.
My family is gone taking the warmth, leaving me with only the cold.
In the dark of winter, I miss my own remembered love.