It's alright to see yourself
sleeping whilst holding a flower.
It's okay to see nimbuses
in the eyes of those you once
gave the sun.
We are all butterflies, kid.
We live. We evolve. We fly.
Accept that rivers always flow,
but keep in mind that even
if you leave,
you will always return.
Maybe not who you are today
but someone who was in the past
or who will be in the future.
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.
