I am leaving scratches on the ground; dragging
my feet: they no longer take me home
if there is one.
The tree in the backyard fell during the storm
and with it went the young years of my life
torn in half by the lightning
and took from me the shade I sought
in your hair and the thoughts they often led me in
and some belief in fantasies.
Even my dreams won't cross the threshold of the room
I confine you in; you haunt me
like homesickness and runaways.
You gave your life to the birdhouse
and waited for the wings to reveal themselves; flutter
and fly away.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
I am leaving scratches on the ground; dragging
my feet: they no longer take me home
if there is one.
The tree in the backyard fell during the storm
and with it went the young years of my life
torn in half by the lightning
and took from me the shade I sought
in your hair and the thoughts they often led me in
and some belief in fantasies.
Even my dreams won't cross the threshold of the room
I confine you in; you haunt me
like homesickness and runaways.
You gave your life to the birdhouse
and waited for the wings to reveal themselves; flutter
and fly away.
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