my yours

my morning has a red-striped sky
your morning doesn't even try
my trees are veins made out of wood
yours burn in fireplace like they should
my houses play games on the street
yours are a place within to eat
my doorways take me near and far
yours only what they seem they are
my windows look into your soul
yours have a very different role
my doorknob turns to years ago
yours doesn't put on any show
my footsteps fill with reverie
yours, to the car and turn the key