Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2016
The graying home.

The graying home,
night to dawn, dawn to hazed day,
back to dusk, to murky night.

The air is rife with the stench
of burning trash, pungent as a just-opened orange,
just as spicy, heavy as cigar smoke,
but dim, imperceptible.

The world turning, while we notice,
from our thrones in the shacks
where our discontentment brews.
Waverly
Written by
Waverly
250
   victoria and RH 78
Please log in to view and add comments on poems