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Unfinished Manor, Udder Confusion

The manor rises,
half‑brick, half‑breath,
scaffolds leaning like drunk giraffes
in a ballroom of invoices.

Builders moo in helmets,
their blueprints dripping milk,
an udder confusion splattering
onto ledgers already swollen.

The chandelier is a receipt,
swinging from the rafters,
each crystal a decimal point
falling into the contractor’s pocket.

Overbudget becomes a hymn,
sung in jackhammer staccato,
while the stairwell halts mid‑air,
a promise of ascent
that never quite lands.

The walls argue with the ceilings,
the ceilings collapse into the floors,
and the floors whisper:
“We were never meant to be finished.”

Outside, the accountants
plant orange cones in the garden,
watering them with IOUs.

Inside, the builders
count their hours backwards,
measuring progress in sighs,
while the manor itself

laughs in unfinishedness,
a monument to expense,
forever almost,
forever not.

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