Its garden dead, its contents cold and bare,
What’s left is just a shell to be repaired.
The sprawling weeds reign king, the grass is long;
the tulips lay forgotten in the throng.
The truck sits, blocking all the driveway space,
forbidding in its grand yet simple grace.
The kids play all around, unbidden, free,
but pause to wave as I pass, wondering.
How love had driven them to tend their home!
The sentiments have fled, one can behold –
the house is peeling, barren, messy, tired.
But final rays of afternoon ignite;
the sparkling windows flash a last farewell.
The truck clangs shut, and leaves with troll-like stealth.
Young man, tell me it ain't true that you are only sixteen. What an amazing talent. Best of luck to you.
ReplyDeleteActually...it's not true! I had my seventeenth birthday in August. Haha...but thank you so much for commenting. Your comment really made my day!
ReplyDeleteThis is great stuff mister! Loved the way you weave each line with the other :)The thought of "What’s left is just a shell to be repaired" is awesome indeed :) Keep up the good work!
ReplyDeleteThank you for your encouragement!
ReplyDelete