Their mouths bring chaos
to my head.
It is unbearable.
It torments me.
I can no longer stay here.
This house isn't
and will never be
my home.
The fire stole and owned this.
I run.
I would rather perish
than be with this crowd.
I run.
I do not belong here,
I must leave.
But where should I go?
Barefooted on the shore, I asked,
"Will the sea return me here
or will she welcome me
to her abode?"
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poesía[ 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.
