What He Built
There was a beautiful home
Where an empty lot now stands.
A family used to live there,
But it’s passed through many hands.
A father built it for his children
With sweat and nails and board,
With occasionally an addition,
Just what he could afford.
Years later, late one summer,
With his children by his side,
In his own home and his own bed,
That loving father died.
He’d kept the roof in good repair
To keep his family dry,
But when his children saw it recently
All they did was cry.
The last owner thought it better
To just let it sit and rot,
It fell to time and weather,
Now it’s just an empty lot.
But after all it was nail and board,
The children shouldn’t’ve cried,
For the better thing their father built
They all held deep inside.
Dreams like water-coloured paintings
Wash away when days are raining
Puddle at the base of my brain,
Diluted in the acid rain.
I watch as heavy skies are greying,
Try to capture thoughts gone straying,
But, like fish, they swim away
And join their brethren in the bay.