A House

He is a house

With a backyard and all,

Chipped concrete steps,

Blind holes in the walls,

And strange doors

That don’t close

All the way through.

He gets a paint,

A shade less dark

But gets overlooked,

Even though he looks sharp

From outside the doors

That don’t close

All the way through.

He sometimes has visitors,

And they often talk,

Leave cobwebs of memories

Before they walk

Out of the strange doors

That don’t close

All the way through.”

©Aaysid

“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”

Kurt Vonnegut

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