MOAT 4355 - Iambic Pentameter (Poetry - The American Dream)

DISCLAIMER: This song was created with the assistance of AI. All My AI Songs:    • 011). All AI Songs (AI Soundtrack)   The American Dream Soundtrack:    • 038). The American Dream (Kenny's AI Sound...   Poetry:    • 161). Poetry   The supper plates lie cooling in the sink. The room still holds the voices of the day. I scrape the hardened gravy from each plate And stack the dishes neatly by their size. The smallest task can keep the larger peace. A mess grows worse the longer it remains. The work that lasts is rarely seen at all. We keep the house so others may come home. The furnace makes a sound I do not trust. I kneel beside the vent and listen close. A bearing wears before the engine stops. A hinge will groan before the doorway falls. The world gives warning when it still has time. We choose if we will listen while we can. The work that lasts is rarely seen at all. We keep the house so others may come home. My father’s level hangs above the bench. Its yellow glass is clouded now with age. He taught me how to find the honest line, Though every board may hide a crooked grain. You measure twice because the blade cuts once. Yet careful hands may still mistake the mark. The boy beside me holds the lamp too low. I start to show him how the work is done, Then let him learn the pressure of the wrench. A lesson earned will settle in the bones. I keep my hand prepared beside the joint, But let his fingers finish what they start. The work that lasts is rarely seen at all. We keep the house so others may come home. I know the ticking made by faulty pipes. I know which stair will shift beneath a heel. I know the weight each shelf was built to bear. I do not always know when hearts grow tired. No gauge reveals what silence may conceal. No measured line can make a sorrow straight. A house is not a thing completed once. The weather works against it every year. The nails draw loose, the painted colors fade. The people change while photographs remain. We mend the roof and clear the winter drain, Yet time still enters through another seam. I used to think that order conquered fear, That every loss would yield to better plans. But storms arrive despite the doors we brace. No list can purchase safety from the world. A system must protect the ones it serves, Or all its strength becomes another cage. The work that lasts is rarely seen at all. We keep the house so others may come home. I sweep the workshop floor before I leave. One crooked chair still waits beside the wall. It can be mended when the morning comes. Not every fault requires the midnight oil. A man may guard the flame and still find rest. The house needs warmth as much as level beams. I leave the porch light burning through the dark. It cannot make the road less cold or long. It only shows the place where feet may land. At times, that little guidance must suffice. We tend one light and trust that it is seen. Then pass the tools to those who follow us.