Singing The Blues In A Glass House

Broken windows.
A testament of all the stones that were thrown.
Empty hallways,
alive with the memories of everything we were.
And yes also of everything we could never be.
The midnight sun would cast it’s light upon our house,
and for a few moments
lady wouldn’t sing the blues.
And everything would look the same.

In an instant the image would be gone.
The sameness would fade.

And there again would be the broken windows.
A testament to just how many stones have been thrown.