Rooms & Halls

A little boy wanders the hall of his mind,
Looking for keys to open closed doors.
While time ticks on his wrist.
Some echo the cry of a lonely baby room.
Other’s cold as a millionaire’s breath.
Heat rises from a register of bad memories.
It’s not a warmth like campfire songs.
But a frost bitten addiction to the halls.
His mind is long with many doors.
Locked tight without a key.

Rooms in his house, doors in his halls.
His mind’s made up of rooms and halls.
Rooms in his house, doors in his halls.
Every board laid with a day of his life.
Some stick good. Others lift bad.
He wanders them all, except closed doors.
That’s how our houses are built!

It’s a twisting rag ring on his soul.
Sunny rooms cool with comfort and care.
Where a coffee pot sings like a walrus roar.
Dark rooms heat with pain and despair.
All the halls lead to them all,
Drawn most to the hall with closed doors.
The private eye loves mysteries,
Needs clues to find the old gold key.

Rooms in his house, doors in his halls.
His mind’s made up of rooms and halls.
Rooms in his house, doors in his halls.
Every board laid with a day of his life.
Some stick good. Others lift bad.
He wanders them all, except closed doors.
That’s how our houses are built!

A door’s ajar,
At the end of the hall, the last stop on his step.
An old man staring at time on his wrist.
Looking at his little time left.
He asks the man if he has any keys.
He says, “Son, it’s you!”
You built a house with decisions you made.
Some sit good. Some lay bad.
Don’t lock parts of yourself out.
Accept, forgive, understand when you can’t.
That’s the key to the doors.
To open your doors.

A little boy found a man in his house.
Built on the road of life.
It ain’t perfect. It’s weather torn, beautiful porch.
It’s a work in progress, to open the room.
And listen to himself watching time on his wrist.
A little boy wanders the halls of his mind,
And rooster crows.