G.--

He treasured things gold, marble, and green; 
ideas green; 
people green.  
Voices singing with money, light-and-lost 
façades within façades, loved-and-lost. 
(Rich girls don’t marry poor boys.) 
The portrait of an Oxford Man holding books with uncut pages, 
the front of a mansion that refused to look forward, 
the mysterious host who killed a man.  
All of them true and all of them false, lies built upon lies, 
liquor bottles forged into lavish parties, silk shirts lying 
scattered  
carelessly, 
(Her wet eyes fixed on green silk--) 
a tower that not even the Oggsford Man himself could climb, 
with only one absolute truth: the tower was green 
but the paint was beginning to chip away.  

Author's Note

This is just for my English class, nothing special, I just thought I'd share it here. Feel free to tear it to shreds. I know there's no meter or anything, my poetry is very loose. :)