Prose Poem, "Build a House"

 Cold feet sweep the floors beneath, a taste of just the right amount; it is bittersweet. When taking a step back into a retreat, a heartbeat beats to the rhythm of sleep. The stairs can't be walked upon, because the cement crumbles each time a step is taken. They build their houses out of clay, like houses are just a show; just a play. Fragile things tend to break, like sand castles. And tree houses shake, the wood tends break, the latter too. Straw houses are just what the cows come to chew. Everything tends to break. Hearts break so easily, it's hard to know what's at stake. Like hearts so red shattered into specks that bled like red paint splattered on a canvas. And those piles of leaves need a rake, the pile of fresh white snow needs a shovel, the long green grass splitting its ends in the spring craves for a trim. A nights shower calling to cleanse off the day, the rain outside, thunder and lightning slipping through the window shades. A dark room can help to end off the day, lack of sleep is too awake, because their minds are busy dreaming of cherry trees. Natural doesn't seem to work, when hard work calls for some effort. Everything only leading to a break, a collapse. Forget it all, forget the haunting past of money here, money there, money thrown everywhere. Look at the futures light, build a house like a tree is built. Build a house from a seed. Take a bite of the red apple, and spit out its seeds, always wanting more. But keeps the seeds, be patient while they grow from the floor.