This house I’ve made
Here is the ground-ridden floor
dusty, because I refused to have it any other way
And here, friend, are the stained walls
saddish, drabbish, anxious to drip away
and painstakingly, I have tried to coax them down but
In the end,
the construction of its interior is a memory I share
maybe
In the end,
it is my room to leave behind
and my burden to relieve
With a comforting, already reminiscent aroma
that refuses to do the same
With another thought more than I ought
perhaps two thoughts less than I should,
I toss what was a wonderful cuppa joe
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