The metaphysical question popped someday;
When you wondered how a home could crumble,
Tremble and crash without digits on a Richter scale,
Without physical quakes or forces of destruction.
Certainly, it could crumble everyday with a tiff;
Might remain joyless, empty of sunshine and light
By premature deaths that leave eternal chasms,
Or by calamities silently borne with muted tears.
How else could you describe that fleeting security,
A little sunshine and feelings of coziness and comfort,
The cuddling warmth and the elusive happiness
Juxtaposed against violent fights and silences.
It still crumbles everyday with little misunderstandings,
As it has always done since you started all raging fires.
