Tuesday, August 26, 2008

My House (Sonnet)

Waking to a room of white, tactful with muck for colors resonating gray-browns
Familiar whistles and chattering chimes the day to be reckoned as my early morn
Trapped between walls, corners bleak of life, stringing with silk webs and dusty rusty molds
The floor dirt filled and dust too scrub bare feet with aging carpet thus almost forlorn
Cars pass with muffler engine roarers disturbing the peace we frustratingly live
Shouting and complaints echoing through our culdesac havens that reminds us all
There is a heaven, there is a paradise, there is a hell, But this must suffice
For struggles implore faith in hopes to dream imaginative amongst the dull
Suppose this was a home, being that it is a house, we should live and work as one
But to be one with those whom differ from your purpose, communication must come
And conjuring the such fairs less with your own conscience and much less with mine own
Keep trinkets to reminisce and new ones for hope, hours pass idly and then some
Fry the chicken and serve the sodas, give the monotony we coordinate
Life is this and forgiving is that, there's none to lose but the coed intricate

[Decameter]

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