The Greenhouse

Beneath the sound of hope,
in iris fields, where wind blows everything away.
Rice’s cold like somebody’s words;
the fabric on the table is quite soft
like sometimes I feel deep inside.
I feel jealous that the sky can rain;
I can’t quite do the same.
The candles too,
do remind me of what sometimes I feel but can’t really show.
The cigarette I’m used to
felt different, like the last days felt too.
I feel like poetry is not my thing.
Should I try something else new?

I’m here in The Greenhouse,
the sun fighting to go through,
overgrown plants and flowers
trying to find its way through the glass doors,
but life goes on.

And when the day ends,
The Greenhouse gets filled with golden lights
in such wonderful moony nights.
You would love to pay a visit.

The night is cold outside,
but the wet grass feels fresh.
I enjoy the scene here.
Is there anyone to listen?