I can’t always be warm.

Sometimes I’m a cold cemetery
That only welcomes bones,
Broken hearts, tragedies,
Lips that haven’t talked for days,
And souls controlled by parasitic grief.

Other times I’m a battlefield
That has seen chaos,
Rage, bloodshed, and death.
I’ve witnessed aftermaths
And how soldiers become winged.

At times I tried to be a home
That promotes rest, growth, and warmth,
But I guess I’m just an empty place —
Ordinary, plain,
Replaceable.