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