It was his novel
where heroes
are not
the protagonists.
It was his novel
where poppies
were often told
and seen.
It was his novel
where bones
could only watch
the sun
fall and rise
again.
It was his novel
that was titled
after his name.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poesia[ 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.
