House of Will

House
        House of Will

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We wept while looking upon

the ruin before us, this horrible

misplaced scene, the bleak walls

that danced with demons shadows,

upon the cracked and gray windows

that we peeped through in fear.

 

Afraid and trembling as Bill staggered

up our street in a fog of disgust, drunk

with the power he knew he had in his

House of Will.

 

The cold cracked asphalt outside,

had no soul, no heart, nothing for us

to compare to the agony and utter

depression or earthly sensation we

all felt as he drew near to the

front step.

 

Like the hideous stench of his aura

that approached this house, it gave

one a sinking, disgusting, sickening

feeling in one’s heart, an icy feeling

up our spines, seeing child like hairs

on our arms dance with fear.

 

Our dear mother knew the demands

that would crush her, the minute Bill

walked through his House of Will,

her dreariness of thought wore her down,

she was but a tool, a plaything for him

to abuse, and with no mercy he would

goad her soul, torturing it with delight.

 

This night like others in the House of Will

would instill fear, hatred and anger as well

revenge into the souls of his victims,

my mother, and my siblings five could not

hide, he would search us out and bring us

to his sacrificial altar of abuse.

 

This demon, most times had a neurotic

obsession with alcohol and sulphuric undertones,

and wanted to exert his power over the weak

and timid in the House of Will. Nevertheless the

mental disgrace that befell this madman had no

asylum clearly close enough to white jacket and

keep him there for good.

 

So the pendulum swung in The House of Will,

cutting our souls, tearing at our fragile young minds,

repeating deeds of intricate deviation and scorn.

An intimacy that left its scars so deep with oppression,

that young minds were ushered in with uplifted arms,

as angels sung their welcome through Heaven’s gate.

 

© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved

 

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

Latest posts by Vincent Moore (see all)

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

6 thoughts on “House of Will

    • July 15, 2017 at 10:08 PM
      Permalink

      Thank you John for the reference to your poem over at the Hubs, I will click on it and give it a read. Yes it’s an unpleasant subject although painful to relive it in verse, it was a very bad time in my life as a young lad. Too common is correct and far too many children and mothers suffer under the hand of a man like this.

      Reply
  • July 15, 2017 at 7:11 PM
    Permalink

    Another powerful piece about the life of a mis-guided soul and his abused family. Great phrasing, Vincent. So emotive and sad.

    Reply
    • July 15, 2017 at 10:09 PM
      Permalink

      Thank you Phyllis for your review and appreciation for this rather unpleasant peace.

      Reply
  • July 15, 2017 at 10:03 PM
    Permalink

    Heart-felt pain and dark shadows that linger still, even in the absence of experience. So well rendered with all the echoes of suffering and its resolution, Vincent, and cathartic in its cleansing of the spirit. Tis a testament to you my friend, that you are a survivor, not a victim, your heart and mind so giving in its found peace. Cheers!

    Reply
    • July 15, 2017 at 10:11 PM
      Permalink

      Yes I was a fortunate survivor, although a few of my friends didn’t fare to well in their upbringing, I found a mentor and savior for sure, they did not and their lives went astray. I’ve found peace in my life finally after all those years and my failed two marriages as well. You and I both have our tales of woe to share, when the body and mind is tested with all these travesties, one wonders how we survived.

      Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Twitter Auto Publish Powered By : XYZScripts.com

By continuing to use the site, you agree to the use of cookies. more information

Our cookie settings are set to "allow cookies" to give you the best browsing experience possible. By continuing to browse this website you are accepting our cookie policy.

Close