This was written on 3/15/2012.
My House was of stone — like that of a fort,
It triumphed over all that beheld its sight.
It never deprived a soul of resort.
It stayed humble, despite all of its might.
It received its power from its makers,
Through every nail, board, beam, and thatch,
Of soul poured — like bread from the baker,
Where every masterpiece is made from scratch.
But what went unknown from my blind eyes
Was the work it took to make my sun and moon rise,
To brush the blues and grays into my skies —
And it was these drains that were the Makers demise.
So the fort the makers forged by hand,
Made stone from their mortal lives of sand.