My home oft transmutes into his downcast
Brother house, who stands broken, and tarnished,
And if I'd retrace the famed dotted contrast,
I'd be but a poet recently varnished.
The archway looks like a conspirator,
About to fall and marry my bones.
The house like my head, needs a janitor
For sweeping clean these zones of unknowns.
The torrid sun and his wavy sons lax
Are not the light one craves for, but the foe,
As though, my body is of flimsy wax
That melts, filtering from hope just woe.
The polar bros are an oddly dressed pair,
Mimicking the residents and the guests,
Chameleon, more so a mirror, just and fair,
Foe in words so a friend within their chests.
~Ajay
20/2/18
