Home is no more home,
Its arms are now fashioned with thorns.
Its roses are wilted, its violets are dead,
Its bed now tucked with poison.
Yet it calls me to embrace,
It looks me in the eye and tells me to speak the truth if I dare
But I am scared of the muscles in its tongue
And the venom in its spit.
I tilt and squint for an iota of resemblance,
Like mother’s stew from a distance,
I smell that familiar smell, calling me to sup.
Memories swirl misty wet behind eyeballs,
I see its inner walls wound up in a knot.
There is no makeup for the soul;
False foundations and blemished blushes do not exist here.
Here, we are naked, bare, truthful,
Surrounded by shredded curtains and worn-out sofas,
Dusty rugs and distressed wallpapers.
I am not oblivious to the chains, the pain, the agony, the weight,
The cold, the lonely, the desolate.
But there is a distance now, a chasm between,
Standing solemn outside our walls.
Dear home, I once promised to be
The custodian of your truth and your memories,
But now I have no use for them.
So I wrap them in this prayer,
And bade them your way.
Dear home, remember your way.
