Little paper shacks--
make up this world (of mine). They dot the horizon like pebbles on a beach--
somewhere far away--
from here.

Doesn't anyone live in them? Somebody wants to know...they're empty.
Vacant lots, as they swivel in the wind--doors open,
if you look closely enough.

But isn't that just
what we never do?

Glance as we pass
by the window-sill--
looking at the pretty things,
only.

Pretty things-
like love and flowers;
like laughter and snowflakes--
pure things. Simple things. Those that want naught but to give in, giving--
those that demand nothing,
but what they incur.

Falsify the obvious.

Pretty things aren't pretty when you look at them like we do:
love leaves one lost, and roses have thorns--
laughter covers the pain, as snowflakes dust over the rusty muddle of winter.

The underside of it all.