Poem: Maintenance

paint 2


Most of the paint has weathered away.
The clapboard beneath has greyed.
In time, if it is never painted again,
the wood will become brittle.
It will break.

That is the way of it all.
Maintain. Or die.
A simple formula
most of us ignore.

About this poem

About paint. About people. Take care of your souls.

Or else.



  1. Wow…

    I greatly enjoy all your writings, most every single one hits home,
    But this one is one of the ones that is, just plain WOW (and incredibly true).


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