There is a mansion that I have known;

The windows are broken and the floors groan.

The walls are cracking and scratched and stained;

It's filled with the ghosts of those who were pained.

The stairs are like a pathway to fears;

The floors are marked and wet from tears.

Shadows gather in every corner;

Darkness left from a long-ago mourner.

Sometimes I wander that mansion and think:

"Did anyone know I was on the brink?

And if they did, why didn't they care?

Didn't they know I was dying in there?"

Because, you see, this mansion's my home;

I must come back, no matter how far I roam.

These mem'ries are chains; they won't let me go.

My mind is a prison, and why, I don't know.