Sitting solitude in my confinement,
Alone in a home left to me on consignment.
A home left from death, that now is my own.
The body itself of the kings overthrown.
But is this really mine, this tiny castle of dirt.
Or a burden to carry that death had exhort,
For me to carry and gracefully make,
A home for my family, for gods sake.
Not just For me alone, though seems easier that way.
The home tells me "that's a horrible thing to say"
And now I rebuild this mansion of clay.
With a light within it that helps guide the way.
The door now open, the windows now creased,
The house is home to love,
The home is at peace.
Within it the veins that were cut to the root,
That burglars and greed started to loot,
That has nothing but this light, and a sturdy new frame
Must create its new image, even with its same name.
I have faith that this home, this ranch of my own.
Will be ever changed by the way that it's grown.