Cardboard House

I dream of a place,

Where I can travel the world,

Sit in all four corners of the globe,

And whizz over all seven continents.

 

I get up from a cardboard bed,

In a cardboard room,

In a cardboard house,

I walk over to a cardboard cupboard,

And stare hopefully at its forever emptiness,

The hope died years ago.

 

I walk into a patchwork field,

And sigh at the unreality,

No green just red,

The reality died years ago.

 

I trek over plastic bottles,

Plastic bags,

And plastic sheets,

None of it means anything anymore,

The meaning died years ago.

 

My foot scuffs,

On a copper coin,

I stare at it,

I can’t get excited,

My excitement died years ago.

 

I snaffle half a hamburger,

From a newly dumped load,

The words on the box blur,

I don’t care anymore,

The care died years ago.

 

In amongst the mush,

Rusty metal cuts against my foot,

Be infected by morning,

I pocket it thoughtlessly,

The thought died years ago.

 

I sold my pocketful of treasures,

Clamping the money in my fist,

I didn’t argue at the unfair price,

That would mean spirit,

The spirit died years ago.

 

I went back to my cardboard house,

In my cardboard room,

In my cardboard bed,

And take in the unhomeliness,

My real home died years ago.

 

I dream of a place,

Where I can travel the world,

Sit in all four corners of the globe,

And whizz over all seven continents.

 

By Lyra

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