But for a rusted lock.
A broken door.
A shattered pane.
Are you willing to forsake
That which you have been calling
Your home
Down to this day?

Yes, I still hear the winds at night
Wheezing noisily.
I hear my pillows whisper,
‘She let her dreams leak
And succumb into moist patches;
Who sleeps like that
Next to enemies each night?
With nightmares warped
From sun-danced dreams?’

But believe me when I say,
That I tried to sew them
With threads of self-indulgent beliefs.
Though I knew;
I could see the bursting seams.
How could I not see?
Scattered toys with sharp ends,
Piercing my feet…
Familiar walls with peeling paint;
You cannot paste them back
Or collect them like memorabilia.

You sweep them.

Under the rug, maybe?
Until next time…

How do you desert a place
You called home?
A home, assembled from skin and bones.

21 December 2016


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