One day I was walking
And I discovered an abandoned house
It was an old house, to be sure,
Rotten and strewn about.
Inside this house there were pictures
Of those who inhabited it before
People of all ages
Their lives centered around this old eyesore.
From what I can tell, they were poor
But strangely enough
It seemed like they were happy
Despite it being so tough.
A makeshift swing hung in the yard
Worn from constant use
Despite years of exposure
Not a single string was loose
In the kitchen, a warm feeling
Swept through me like the wind
Many meals were shared here
Despite bellies being thinned
This place was important to them
Even though moss coated the walls like foam
And as I looked, I finally knew
This was not a house, but a home.
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
Imagination
Poesiaim·ag·i·na·tion /iˌmajəˈnāSH(ə)n/ noun the faculty or action of forming new ideas, or images or concepts of external objects not present to the senses. Otherwise known as "Musings of the Balladeer." This is an anthology of poetry I've written...
