It’s never quiet here. Untamed. Never soft.
Gentleness shooed away with haste.
Nothing quaint lasts. Wreckage takes hold. Reigns.
Hushed focus scorned into repentance.
Photographs line the scarred walls. Graying into nothingness.
Harder to love. Harder to try.
Floors of sand soak in all unset footing.
The house flips over once more. Once again.
Rising above, from below.
Loving harder. Trying harder.
All around me blooms color and vibrance. Memories.
Peace emerging through the passageways readied for its arrival.
Attractiveness prevails. Destruction faltering.
Aggression having no might left, vacates.
It’s always quiet here. Tamed. Soft.
As I prepare for my approaching descent, all is well.
The hourglass is fair to all.
And this home of mine resides in my state of mind.
About the Creator
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More stories from Sherman B. Mason and writers in Poets and other communities.
I Haven't The Foggiest
The knock on the door startled them both. After a quick exchange of glances, Roy rose from his armchair and opened the door to their home. The small box at the foot of the door laid alone. Roy looked around for any sight of a courier. The calm summer day showed no signs of anyone. He picked up the brown paper-wrapped box and shut the door, making sure to take another quick look for a driver.
By Sherman B. Mason4 years ago in Fiction
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