Of A House

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 Watching, watching, watching, watching.

Eyes gleam out of mine, staring.

Their steps march merrily, they care barely.

For in these veins they live less warily.

But they clone me endlessly, amputate listlessly,

So they may grow me to fit their entropy.

I groan, I protest, but if it matters they ill confess,

For their care only spares for blood of red not air.

They beat through my hearts and pump through my lungs,

But when I bore them they ignore my tongues.

But they will care, when they come again.

I have locks and tricks and darkness then.

They’ll have to stay, however they sob,

For they will not have this house robbed.

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