The Movement

 I sit here 
staring at the 
blank white walls, 
it's like a prison now, 
something that was 
once called home, 
now so bleak and dreary, 
the few pieces of furniture 
scattered around the house, 
no more hustle and bustle 
of feet coming and going 
through the door, 
it's a shell, 
this domicile that 
once played host 
for some of the most 
exciting parties 
ever seen. 
Each and every stain 
on the carpet holds 
a memory, or even two. 
That dent in the wall 
from a missed step 
toward the couch, 
the sag in the ceiling 
where the shower leaked, 
the broken beer pong table 
that hosted some of the 
best championship games. 
Ah, those memories will 
never die. 
Almost too many memories, 
they crowd this shell 
of a house, it was ours. 
Looking over my shoulder 
through the glass of the 
back door, I recall how 
much fun we've had, 
the good times, 
and the bad. 
But in this movement 
of the song of life, 
it is only a bar, 
maybe a few notes, 
and its time to start 
playing a new instrument.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved