The House

Well, I won't tell you what it's about. If you can't figure it out, I guess it's not a very successful poem, now, is it?

The cold, damp air of the city

is harsh, and carries a rank stench

of grease and garbage through the

maze of dilapidated streets and drab buildings.

In the heart of it all, bright

glaring lights shine lurid colors

down upon the masses of

starvings artists screaming to be heard and a sea of empty pinstripes,

gripping tight to briefcases void of promise.

In through double doors and off of the streets,

there is refuge to be found. Ornate shelters

exist as a home to songs and stories of every sort,

where any and all are welcomed in to warm

by the glow of a more pleasing light, and to

escape from the monotony into a world of color.