What meets your eye?
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0Sometimes i weave
my house of rhymes.
Its scents and its noises,
Its people and their voices
are not made of bricks,
but meander well in unision
to conceive a home.
Sometimes I see
your house of stone.
The grandeur and the glory,
the usual multi-story,
stares me across a farm of crop.
But I cant even see
in its mundane backdrop.
Sometimes you stand
in the field outside,
and wonder why
its greener my side.
What cuts out wide,
may not grow deep.
Room by room,
your house is a feat.
But maybe you need
to look within.
Maybe your mansion
is merely an inn.
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