a good home, its marble face shone
against the streaming light, falling
on a desk standing still, by the window sill
with pictures hanging all around.
Bright blue candles neatly climbing
the pyramid of books in glossy garb
and Chrysanthemums peeking
at straight lined cigars,
astride atop a China vase.
No feet roaming wild within walls,
pearly white and standing tall
covered in framed brushstrokes
containing the lives of other folks.
In this good house so perfect
and true, no stories spill
and spread unchecked,
colouring sleeping rugs that lay
lost in secrets of Mandalay.