Poetry

My Brother wrote this:

The little door to my house is open to you
though I've not much here
and even less for entertainin'

So with white lies we'll consecrate the holiness
of making much of nothing

I hope it's a long time hence
when I've told you all my stories

The table of my heart is set and waiting for you
with a feast so rich
though the stranger in you cannot conceive how dear it did cost me
My cupboards and storehouse for you
have all been emptied

I hope it's a long time hence
when I've told you all my stories

You're a welcome guest
so settle down
I'll lay down next to you, for I've but one bed in this heart
and it's a lonesome place that needs for company a keepin'

Do not fly so quickly from me, oh my love
fluttering here and there across the warm places of my memory
where once you stood and loved me, perhaps in the coldness
the coldness of necessity