The Builders are in (a Stream of Unconsciousness)

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If I build with words
What sort of edifice could I create?
Would my construct be believable?
My credibility be retrievable if a false façade was fashioned?
Or am I inevitably going to build upon a foundation akin to a swamp?
Would the contents be immense
Or would there be a sense
Of pretence?

When done and my travails all finished that I had begun…

Would a shed be ashaméd?
A gazebo have to go?
A lean-to try to, mean to, but fail to amuse with it’s shadowlands views?
A conservative conservatory need another story?
And its basement need replacement?
And if my floors and walls, Windows and ceiling
Were to be put on view,
Revealing their inadequacies;
Failing to please,
Perhaps I should have stuck to a simple tree-dwellin
Rather than to be consigned to history
As a mystery
Needing felling.

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