Houses
By piftrilkin
Wed, 29 Sep 2004
- 315 reads
Grey-filtered morning spreads itself across the city,
Blanketing the houses in dullness
And leaving only the occasional beam of sunlight
To gild the rooftops in temporary gold.
The sky hangs heavy yet changing,
Billowing like dark watercolour paint
Dispersing in a great mass of liquid.
With the world so encroaching,
The homes become insular,
Turn from the cold of outside
And suffocate in the security of their lonely warmth.
Those little houses crowded into orderly little streets
Stand grimly inert and impassive,
Their windows tightly curtained,
Showing as little of the inside as possible.
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