Sweet Adealine, dear friend of mine, your story incomplete;
Such a misconception, of animosity.
Many years a martyr, you’re the one that stayed behind;
The other children went ahead, and carved their place in life.
Mother, she was sickly, always dishing guilt,
You took the blame for all her pains and never said a word.
Oh but Adealine, your skin grew weary and your mouth went dry, the bitter taste of seething hate had made your heart go blind.
Wanting to do right, intentions were so pure, you built the house of humility, and painted all the walls.
The colors were of seasons, years that could have been, no man could see the layers, no keys could get them in.
What secrets held you captive, in your fairytale?
Was Mothers eyes still following you as you drove the nails?

The house became a castle, deep inside the rooms, a mystery would flourish, as the roses bloomed.
Tucked inside the closet, back behind the coats, a little girl was hiding, waiting for a ghost.
Echos in the hallways, whispers and the creeks, Adealine you left behind a shadow of deceit.
Mother, she was fading, it was taking her for years, she had no clue, just who you were and that left you to your fears.
Lost you became without her, bickering in shame, you took the face of a little girl and left Adealine in the rain.
Sitting in the window, far off in her stare, each line round her eyes has laughter, each circle has a tear.
No one can guess whats in your head, or words that sit on your lips, no sounds or expression can photograph a moment that you missed.
Gave a life of freedom, to someone elses chains, now in the house of seasons, Adealine remains…

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