House

This house they say is made with gold
Dreams of fast cars and fancy clothes
But it is
small
white
desolate
with old ratty towels hanging on the doors
Patterns of flowers
once hopeful but no more

This house of yours
I am a guest
With trodden shoes
I find no rest
You advertised a haven
you lied and created a mess

Sorry to the land locked few
who write their blues in dirty shoes
standing in their lone white houses
dreaming dreams of greater prizes