|
Post by kapziel on Sept 22, 2008 22:25:42 GMT -5
The House
There is a house, small but cozy at the end of the street, where the sun only shines when you’re home, and the grass only seems lively when you take the time to notice them. The door is always open, like open arms, inviting and warm, and the windows have drapes which beseech you to run your hands through them like strands of hair, soft and shimmering even in the dark. The bed is always ready, made just for you, with sheets and pillows tender like fingers creating concentric circles on your skin, arcing from your shoulders to the small of your back, and the small whispers, a warm breath against your neck. But you haven’t been to visit in so long, and the house begins to fade, begins to crack, the foundations in disrepair, and the rain hasn’t stopped, so the leak has gotten worse. But the house does what it knows best, which is to wait, and under it’s own patience, it collects dust and weeds, and the paint begins to fade, but it waits, and it waits, because it is a home, and it knows that one day, you’ll return, to an open door, and still-beautiful drapes and a warm bed.
Note: Not too many revisions, it's my most recent poem. Dedicated to the person I'm in love with, alas, it is mostly unrequited. Any feedback/criticism is greatly appreciated, thank you in advance~
|
|
|
Post by Dreamer on Feb 20, 2009 10:50:55 GMT -5
Wow... I think there's something so much deeper then a "house" in this poem. It's beautiful by the way. I really like it. As for criticism... I'm not sure I have any. (I'm not much good at giving it anyway, but I really don't have any anyway.)
|
|