White columns.

Little houses unfold between paper-white columns
Pairs of blushing leaves are caught red-handed
Spirits soar on a diagonal and laughter rings nearly true

In little houses, a little goes a long way, but not quite long enough
I saw a quivering lip drown in fifteen ounces of sleeplessness
If she slips away, at least she’ll be awake to feel the fall

Ear to the ground, a soft pulse quickened
It ebbed away. I did not hear through such thin walls
Then I lingered in the stairwell; even hinges weep aloud

Blank, papery sunlight streams between ashen columns
Raise a lantern to the welded mass of congenial smiles
Even little houses have cellars full of rot

Like a chisel against a pale veneer, smile warmly
Catch the swinging door before it closes
with firmer, kinder, battle-marked hands

There is safety in truth, and truth in broken things
Shatter pristine castles, let the glass tear light asunder
Torn curtains make little houses into safe places

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