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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Thriller/Suspense · #1747431
This is a poem with a mixed meter and rhyme scheme about two arrogant friends.
I had invited my friend over whom
I hadn’t seen in well over a year.
I’ve not seen my friend, Bart, since I moved here,
Away from where the dreary clouds did loom
Over that house where I lived with my spouse.
I decided to move away from there
Because it’s always nice and sunny here.
I gave my friend, Bart, a tour of the house.

Bart was very impressed with all the rooms
That contained art by Goya and Van Gogh,
As well as art by Michelangelo.
Art depicting mourners at loved ones’ tombs
And art showing celestial wonders, too.
Paintings of all sorts of men and their gods,
And paintings of man and nature at odds,
And a lovely painting of Shakespeare’s Shrew.

Then there’s my statue of Caesar standing
Tall and gazing into the high heavens,
Daring gods to test his perseverance.
Daring them to test his strength, demanding
That they test his resolve every last hour,
That his foes might give him his due reverence,
And all would know to bow in his presence,
And thus he proclaims his mighty power.

Life’s been very good to me this past year.
“Well, that is the grand tour,” I said to Bart,
As he was still admiring all the art.
“Not quite… What about that door over there,”
Bart asked as he pointed to the tall door
Across from the study. “Oh, nothing Bart,”
I said coolly, despite my racing heart.
“Just a very messy room, nothing more.”

“Oh, a messy room? That won’t bother me.
Lest you forget, we did room together
At Harvard that entire semester.
I think that you’re just acting selfishly,
Keeping the best of your great collection
To yourself as your own private treasure,”
Bart teased, clearly taking great, great pleasure
With my all-too-obvious frustration.

“No, it’s not just any mess,” I stammered,
Trying to think on my feet,
“It’s actually under construction.”
“All the more reason for me to see it!”
I forgot that he was an architect.
“I couldn’t do any official work on it,”
Bart continued, headed toward the door,
“But I could certainly offer—“
“I’d really rather not”, I interrupted,
But too late.
Bart opened the door,
And immediately turned pale
As he saw the skeletons that I had hid in my closet.
© Copyright 2011 Casey Daniel (cdswint at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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