Home

Fluorescent lights of glass luster with hands of pellucid iridescence,

Across the peeling and stonewashed walls,

Slowly stretching in the exhale of afternoon,

As the sun bled from the arduous day filled with,

World’s turmoil. Alas, the soft murmurs of the aged,

Wood floor, rolled and wrought from years of disaster,

Bathed its soft body in the light and embraced the,

House in its still and hoary breath. The room lit,

By not the song of days end, but by silence’s warm melody.

A child, sitting among the gentle sounds, remained inobtrusive,

To the home's soft tune and listened,

To its pressing lyrics ever so quietly,

As if a world had not existed,

And only home remained.

(Note: A quick jot that I cannot quite please myself with, though I hope it reminds those whom come upon it of the mellifluous warmth of home. Of course, writing this at five o'clock in the morning, without any sleep, aids me not in writing this rather crude piece.)