Writing sestinas are fun but can drive you to ultimate frustration.

The shadows in the glass stir

Beneath my palm, the frigid window steams

A scarf of moonlight falls

untroubled on the sill. The fractured home

Surrenders to the weedy ground

Which then turns into an unearthly brown.

Inside the house, the stairs are browning

Mad minds of women stirring.

Decomposition on the ground

causes the pungent mold to steam-

I used to call this my home

Before the roof started falling

The mirrors liked to fall

As the grey colored floor panels turned brown.

The liveliness of the home

resist to fail to instill fear when it stirred.

The knobs of the doors frequently steamed

And the frame stood grounded

In the winter the shadows lay on the ground

Gently from the wall, they fall

They give off heat and steam

Leaving the air thick and brown

Only the delirious stir,

Never leaving their home.

What is a home?

Without a weedy ground?

Without shadows stirring?

Incompetent minds deteriorate and fall

Into the brown

Abyss, collecting steam.

It’s an unpleasant but familiar steam,

Here, the steam has made its home

From within the browning

Mouths buried in the ground.

The moonlight falls

And the echoes stir.