My home town, is a home to many.
But houses like ours, there aren’t any.
Amidst the fog, the spotlight reveals,
This grubby house, we keep concealed.
The pyramid roof, distinct jasmine aroma,
Scuffed bubblegum walls, with a musty persona.
There is no furniture, just a worn carpet,
A grainy beige, like sand underfoot.
When crows pry, disturbing our memories,
A scarecrow spooks them, so we make enemies.
Image credit: pixabay.com
In response to the Paint Chip Poetry Prompt Challenge #25 found here
Before I read the grave’s etching,
The whispering winds blow colder.
My arms are heavy with tension,
Your hand of lead pressed on my shoulder.
I said my final good riddance,
Thinking you were gone.
Why won’t you tire of haunting me?
Vic, I plead with you, move on.
Your enflamed, bloodshot eyes
Effortlessly graze my soul.
Even from beyond the grave,
You still demand control.
Your body may pass through me,
But you still take a violent swing.
The illusion still has impact;
No trace of hope for the living.
In response to dVerse’s resurrection challenge found here