The Zealot and The Pedant
Key in the door,
a crack of light trailed the corner
caressing pergo floor laminate and the stalest odor.
A deep sigh,
frail composure,
my teeth tight
as my hand started scaling over -
If these walls could talk; I'd be a braille decoder.
The first read must've been in rose colored glasses.
A little paint tainted where the stucco suffered splashes,
some mouldings cracked, but no reason to steam or fret much.
Oh yeah, one of the three screen doors gets stuck.
Changed the locks and claimed it as mine.
We started with a bedroom set and some change from our grinds.
The first night was spent with the most basic design:
A sink full of ice for the champagne and the wine,
some take out and beach chairs as our furniture.
We loved it unconditionally,
steadfast to the whereas or furthermore.
Neglected segments were stared passed and hurdled forth -
thinking we retroactively prepared that by working more.
As the home became a reality and common in our bounds
I went bat-shit from rat shit clusters that were found.
Then wet-rot under the sink - more than something trickled down...
This was Paul Hogan's home - a fucking Flipper house.
Not to mention broken floor boards and shitty paint.
Want to know how much I like this place?
ask the whores at CITI Bank.
Eventually we'd reached a stasis that allowed visitors
by decorating with accommodations that sound simpler:
tables and chairs,
tables and chairs,
couches, lounge seats, and barstools we're able to spare.
Every place around it has a coaster, but thats unrelated (I swear).
Ok, it's not.
Join me for a drink... I've got a fable to share.
Five bed, three bath, dining, living and family rooms.
But only the master and one guest have been used.
A desolate guest downstairs, a craft and a gaming room,
and all are empty because our stacked cash is unfavorable.
Did I mention the bar? Or the Effing-garage?
I'm supposed to brew in one, drink in the other,
but I'm forgetting to start.
My friends have caught on and are pressing me hard -
"get a console or PC and catch wreck with the squad."
My lady wants an easel for her sketches and art
and saying no to everyone just tears me apart.
So I drink and I play - loathing to catch static
and hoping for fast assets like I'm going to cash taxes...
Between thoughts of the message being anecdotal and pragmatic,
if you haven't caught the nuances - I know it's that 'that happens.'
I'd seem shocked but I'm hell bent to sew the truth and
show between the zealot and the pedant:
I'm only human.