PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

There are funny things to note of home:
such as only rain that travels sideways
is able to bring water into my kitchen.
One out every three nozzle is broken.
Two out of every fourth light is as well.

The cat prefers the windowsill,
or the space in front of heating vents.
But I suppose that both make sense.
He's only a cat, after all.

The temperatures affect us so
and there's little to be held against.
Perhaps the walls are made of scales,
bathed in cold blood with ten fork-ed tongues
and unable to deign accommodation.

Spiders are surprising few,
but there's hawks high in the trees.
Once they'd sat upon the fence
and gazed at us like neighbors.

In this space I sober up,
or loosen bolts in essence to
shake to spry my mind's own eye,
pry it from its well of dredging,
set it ablaze if only to grant it its freedom.

Here is where I tend to vomit,
leaving all gained self to stink.
The following day I feel much better;
turn the shades to greet the sun.

At last, this is, where I tend to sleep;
sure beneath the mellow of one tiny pill.
Lonesome stretches tend to clutter,
but one must just recall, on even coldest eve:
"There was at once a time where someone ached for me."