A Home of Its Own

The door speaks
with its mouth shut
in a language of knocks,
but is quiet soon as
it opens up.
I feel it is an introvert.

The windows wave
and often slam aloud
or spew raging winds,
unwelcome critters and dirt
to demand attention.
I feel they have ADHD.

The ventilators are
either asleep or awake
for they do not know
what twilights are; they
are just their own self.
I feel they are the wallflowers.

The staircases never move
but always urge a haste. They
look up, look in front but never
can make up their minds, if
they go up or they come down.
I feel they might be bi-polar.

The floors, oh them floors-
they are Atlas-esque and
bear with everything, everyone
as a weight upon their shoulders.
Creaking at places, sinking in some;
I feel they are depressed.

The walls pretend to shield,
to protect but often fail. They
don't let go, unless the doors
speak up or the windows wave.
They cannot move on, nor forget.
I feel they are stubborn.

The ceiling however, sees them all,
sees it all and never discriminates
nor does it interfere. It covers them
all and keeps them together with an
all encompassing benevolence.
I feel it is the consciousness.

The house l believe,
lives in a home of its own!