Burnt Toast
What a peculiar smell
The kitchen is burnt with the taste of raw chicken and rotten tomatoes
Too many dead flies lay upon the window sill
Waiting to be swept away with the closing of a curtain
And in the middle of the garden
Cucumbers grow from tops the soil under the tree
Inhibited by the broken house
Shelter to only faeries and fawn
Tree house
Broken like everything else around
A pool house
Woven over with ivy and honeysuckle
Where the wild things grow
And the summer can't be found
To the weary, worn path
Cobblestones
No longer stone
Even the birds have gone now
No longer seeking a refuge of the snow
Pool turnt swamp many years ago, now
Covered in the silk of green
Not letting go of the sun
No more pool
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