Moon at Half Past Noon

Upon a hill of emerald green,
It sits in silent, pristine grace,
A paradigm of the perfect scene,
A hallowed, sought-after place.

Its clapboard walls are winter's breath,
Its shutters black as starless night.
It stands defiant against time's test,
A beacon of enduring light.

The porch, a stage for lemonade,
For laughter echoing in the dusk,
Where memories are gently laid,
Beneath the wisteria's purple musk.

Through leaded glass, the windows gleam,
Revealing rooms of honeyed light,
A sanctuary, a living dream,
That banishes the outer night.

Inside, the hearth is always warm,
With smells of bread and polished pine.
It promises to weather storm,
And make a broken world align.

But silence grows where talk has been,
A colder chill the sun can't burn.
The flawless walls are held within
By nails of envy, sharp and stern.

That laughter on the porch was strained,
A performance for the passing street.
The happiness was self-contained,
A fragile and a brief deceit.

The shining floors, so sleek and wide,
Have felt the tread of anxious feet,
And witnessed where the tears were cried
In bitter and in dark retreat.

The mirrors on the landing reflect
The hollow eyes and practiced smiles,
The whispered words of disrespect
That travel down the empty aisles.

The dream is mortgaged, deep and vast,
Not just in gold, but in the soul.
The die is cast, the lot is cast,
To play a role and keep it whole.

So lovely from the outside view,
A portrait of a life well-made,
It traps the weary and the true
Beneath the gleaming facade.

For every house that seems a crown,
A symbol of a battle won,
Holds shadows weighing sorrow down
Beneath the unforgiving sun.