We hung it up
On all our bedroom doors
One at a time,
Taking turns as the month went by

Our forerunners gave it to us
Generation gaps documented
With every stitch and knot
In the imitated metallic life

This lavish flophouse
Bore our worries since
Any of us could ever

Every day was a new door
Dressed with the decaying relic
Under the rotting wood ceiling
Where rain fell through during storms

None of us had family
Just each other
And all those who came
From another, before

I see outsiders outside my window
Streaks in the cracked glass pane
I think it so strange, that they look
At me as if I’m one who’s caged

My lofted room is my home
Outside can be lost for all I care
All I need is my wreath,
My chaperone

The wreath knows who I am
Every year during this month
For one day of the month
The wreath knows who I am

Published by Jake Thomas Shaw

Concerned with memory, currency, and destiny, I strive to capture each one as they happen. Join me and consume reality! Radio Reality. City!

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