The house on the hill;
it wavers about 
lost Sundays 
and it thinks it was good;
but it doesn't talk,
well.

The door it's fine,
a solid day
that knows the blistering
of the meaning in rays-
the beat-down 
of imperial sun,
the cool nights 
of a serious moon.

The hall is an end 
to the room within,
and sinking ships
did spin;
as air is coarse
in any seashore
when match is met
and pressure builds-

the rest of a life
there's wind,
and sand 
and hiding...
can be beautiful
even at night.