I make myself a candy house everyday,
with new flavours – raspberry,
bubblegum, orange, guava, cherry;
with new tweaks – a cotton candy bed
or a swirling table with a chocolate seat at the head.
And everyday, the candy house protects
the brilliant colours and savory odours,
from the blackness of innumerous insects
that leave the house I carefully crafted to moulder
into hollowed nothings and ugly cuttings.
In my city I roam apprehensive
jealous of people living in wooden houses
that boast of splendid appearances,
and stay the same stable homes
through passing days and years gone.
And they think of my candy house
as an exquisite work of art,
ignorant of the pests that plough it to bits
or of the desperation that keeps building it up.
Again. Everyday. So I can keep up
the sweet appearances.
