Painted white, that is old,
Some time long ago it ope'd to a home,
With tales ne'er to be told,
It has windows that at one time might show,
Horror, joy and sadness,
These are never absent from any life,
That has reached as far as adolescence.
The same door has moved and now opens to,
A room with naught to share,
Until life spends any time within it,
A new life it must bear,
That it thought done,
The wood had opened up,
Just to find new 'life' and a coat of paint.
Would it could scream out all the acts it once snuffed.
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