Coming home is sad
It's like watching a landscape of green devoured by the imminent rain of Western clouds
Slow and tiresome, the feeling grips your tongue, a poisonous serpent waiting for annihilation
You remember all the good things, the garden where your mother bought new pots and kept them, the fuzzy terrace of your friendships, the dining table where your father always sat alone to eat.
He never spoke, neither did you
Coming home is suffocating
You think its nice to be back but they chain you like a sheep.
Dreaming, voices of sheep bleating come faltering. They are dying again this year.
A cloud shaped tear envelops your secret corner, the wound of longing overpours starting to salvage the papers of love.
Coming home is awful
It's October and the house stinks of dead moths and nostalgia.
The curtains sift the dust from the outside world and once again, drags your hands into the black corridors.
you were cut from a different cloth of malaise and wet skirts, drenched by a sad moonlight.
You remained silent despite the horrors bordering the doors
The cost of comming home and never returning haunts you again
Carrying the weight of time
Coming home is like digging up the moist earth, hoping to find a seed
It remains destroyed somehwere between the past and future.
There's no smell, no remnant, no faith
But a distant death like somlonence
*inspired from I am thinking of Ending things a short film*
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
PoetryCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
