The Rest House

On a lonely hill, where no one makes home, is a 

Rest house. On that hill, where crickets take ease 

And lay their tune, where brothers aim never to go, yet 

Their sisters try to rest their heads, is that rest house.

With foundations foreign and strong yet weak to the 

Muddy terrain, sturdy and yet, so frail to the seasons there;

This rest house was made to ease the weary and travelling in

pain, yet

Welcomes those who use it for a wicked aim, and then leave.

The caretaker has no complaints; it gets so lonesome on that hill;

When the rest house is his mind.
                      ||THE REST HOUSE||



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I am me. I am Me. I write when I want to be free.

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