Standing tall the small house rests beneath trees
Of oak, maple, pine.  That house, it is mine –
Cast by someone else, the first brick was soft
Like brown clay trembling above the stone earth,
But soon it baked in a southern sun’s
Heat, the water ****** from lonely soil –
Mine to paint, to decorate, to ignore.  
It is yours in sight only, nothing more;
Of course this was before I knew how to
Tell the truth to my hollow reflection,
Which weakens upon further inspection
In the light of a dusty, greying moon,
Who sets each morning hoping to never
Rise alone again.  Now I know my house,
It’s dirt floors sprouting lecherous weeds,
Resting in the spots I thought flowers grew.  
Made of cards, it crumbles with the first breeze
Spreading like a cool, formless smear of fire
Until ash is all that is left to rot –
Like my wire stairs, or windowless room.  
My skyward eyes bleed chilled rainwater
As they gaze at a damp, moldy ceiling.  
One of these days the stars will shine for me,
But I will be surrounded by concrete
Walls that stop the singing trees from reaching
My sad, begging ears.  Only a fool dreams
Of a bigger cage to rust away in.  
To you a small house rest beneath tall trees,
Yet there rests a pile of nothing to me.