More Ryhme des mots

Blue House

I will build you a blue house on a green hill.
On the very top floor there will be a library filled to its silver brim with tales of our adventures, mahogany shelves lining the four walls of the ever spiraling room. When we lay on the crystal ceiling, (because gravity does not exist here,) we'll be able to see the labyrinth of leather bound books.
Our tower will be so high, there won't be need for any other light than the moon.
There is no man in the moon, but there is a lovely woman.
She is married to the man in the sunbeams on your skin
their children play in your voice when it's cracking with happiness.

I will build you a blue house on a green hill.
Every bedroom will have a feather bed for us to lay in, a window to open in the evenings, and a tunnel leading out and under the loose floorboards of our kitchens.
There will always be bread in our blue house. That way, at night, when your feet are cold on my back in the bed we share,
when the windows are filled with the shapes of leather winged creatures in the trees-
you'll always have warm bread and strawberry jam.
There will be a blanket and a kiss from me,
sticky strawberry lips on foreheads sending us both back to sleep.

I will build you a blue house on a green hill.
In that house will be a concert hall; all the instruments knowing how to play themselves.
Miles of cello strings being plucked by the exhale of the woodwinds. Every key on the pianos just a stage for the tap dance that the angels in the dust put on for us.
Soft strings, swaying along with your hips and mine as we dance along to it all like you're honey and I'm wine.

When I build you this blue house, on this green hill, I will be careful to hide the splinters in my hands.
Leading you up the staircase in a trail of ash
as only normal people enter through the doorway.
I'll sew you a dress with the needles in my palms, drawing roses onto your skirts with blood dewdrops.
In our ballroom we'll host monsters and ghosts.
they'll sway through the days and nights, our good ol'
violin defibrillators bringing them back to life.
Again. And again.
Why do our house parties always end up with all the guests either bored or dead ...

If I can build you a blue house, and if I can find you a green hill,
I'll have a place to put the butterflies in your marble hall of a stomach when it quakes.
I'll hold your frame in the night should you wake and hot milk just isn't enough to stop the leather wings beating against mirrors and ceilings, on doors and in closets.
Sometimes, your shaking moves me too, then it's just the both of us living on an open faultline.
Breathing only riptides.

I might be able to build you a roof,
I might be able to paint my words blue,
still, neither of our eyes rain nearly often enough for any hills to be green.
And too rarely do we dance with our dead long enough for them to be more than bad dreams.
So if we ever do find a place to live,
just let it be a place that we can leave.