Be gentle with these
poems,
these children,
for I do not bore them.
I raised them.
They are sons
and daughters
of them
who were born
in a horrendous place.
Be gentle to them,
for they are
only children;
innocent and
wanted to be heard
by the world,
and give them
moonlight,
so they won't grow blind.
- nocturnal bloom
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
