A Home of Its Own

The windows wave
and often slam aloud
or spew raging winds,
unwelcome critters and dirt 
to demand attention.
I believe they have ADHD.

The ventilators are
either asleep or awake
for they do not know
what twilights are; they
are just their own self.
I believe they are the wallflowers.

The staircases never move
but always urge a haste. They
look up, look in front and never
can make up their minds, if
they go up or they come down.
I believe they might be bipolar.

The floors, oh them floors
they are Atlas-esque and 
bear with everything, everyone
as a weight upon their shoulders.
Creaking at places, sinking in some;
I believe they are depressed.

The walls pretend to shield,
to protect but often fail. They
don't let go, unless the doors
speak up or the windows wave.
They cannot move on, nor foget.
I believe they are stubborn.

The ceiling however, sees them all,
sees it all and never discriminates
nor does it interfere. It covers them
all and keeps them together with an
all encompassing benevolence.
I believe it is the consciousness.