These Walls

They built the strong foundations for a house they Made a home. From stones they carved out of the mountainside. Filled it with a family, the noise it fueled The fire. A haven that was safe and warm alive. And the chapel bells rang out for all the Miners and their kin. If only they could see the state I'm in. As I'm peeling back the paper, Layer upon layer. The stories are still hanging in the air. And they speak to me of wonder, The struggle of it all. Thinking of the ones that went before. And it's all here in these walls. The village streets were empty as the snow it Raged outside. The winter days of 1917. The house fell sadly silent, another missing boy. We'll never know the horrors that he's seen. And the chapel bells rang out for all the Soldiers and their kin. If only they could see the state I'm in. As I'm peeling back the paper, Layer upon layer. The stories are still hanging in the air. And they speak to me of sorrow, The ruin of it all. Thinking of the ones that went before. And it's all here in these walls. The builders long forgotten. Old occupants unknown, but this house is still a Home. I'm standing in the doorway with a paintbrush in My hand. Trying to make some sweet sense of this place. The stairs they may be broken and the carpet's Wearing thin. But a beating heart and soul still remains. Though the chapel bells no longer ring and the Mine it makes no sound. This little house will soon be singing out. As I'm peeling back the paper, Layer upon layer. The stories are still hanging in the air. And they speak to me of wonder, The wisdom of it all. Thinking of the ones that went before. And it's all here in these Walls. It's all here in these walls.