Apt

Her apartment appeared
to dangle eight feet above the ground,
resounding like a sodden cloud -
a thunderous clang of bricks,
a scene from one of those epics.
Melting into one messy 'mezcla'
of 'hoorays' and 'hoorahs' -
an architectural masterpiece.

The 'hanging house', they called it.
It would swing in the rain
like a sling on a frame.
Some declared its splendour. Some spat.
'How could you sell crap like that?'
A common occurrence, the feeling arouses
hippocracy from those in glass houses.
But still, for her, it was apt.

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