I dreamt last night of a place where boys played;
A house made of memories my ancestors made.
Rooms of knowledge, etchings of names
On walls, staircases and window frames.
Books were written about their lives,
Each one had a chapter, even their wives.
As I wandered through rooms looking for more,
I awoke with the knowledge of what is in store.
No easy task this path will be,
No rooms full of answers are waiting for me.
Instead there are stairways, twisting and old,
There’s a wealth of life wanting to be told.
It’s all here in this house of my soul;
And when I’m worthy it will open and I’ll become whole
With the knowledge of giants on whose shoulders I walk,
As their memories speak- I will listen when they talk.
I wrote this poem several years ago and have always loved the title…hence the title of my blog. (I’m not the best at poetry…)