My heart is a house
with too many evacuation plans,
too many goodbye notes stuffed in drawers,
Walls scorched from old flames
and yet somehow,
My enclosure still stands
A single candle burns in the window.
Somewhere inside,
a quiet part of me keeps sweeping the floors,
keeps putting fresh water on the nightstand,
just in case my heart
finds its way back home.
The sky hangs like a scroll,
letters scorched by lightning,
and I pace the ruins of my own patience,
calling to a God
who left a note on the table: “Gone for cigarettes, back never.”
Even the prophets look tired,
their sandals frayed,
their voices echoing in empty streets,
while I sweep the ashes of my own prayers
into neat little piles
and wonder if mercy is just another myth.
The cobbled roads are rivers of ash,
and I wade through them barefoot,
counting the remnants of prayers
that never found ears,
watching towers crumble
and cherubim sink into dust,
their wings weighed down with exhaustion,
Wondering if the Morning Star
Felt this way as he fell from grace
The air tastes of sulfur and burnt offerings,
as I walk through temples
icons overturned,
gold leaf flaking like old scabs.
No incense rises,
only smoke from forgotten altars
curling into a heaven
too distant to answer.
Ashes fall around me like angels
their wings whispering
names I can’t remember,
prayers I can’t finish
And still I walk,
through the ruins of prayers and prophets,
my feet scorched, my hands empty,
wandering a land of smoke and angels’ ashes,
while the Morning Star drifts overhead,
a witness to my exile,
watching kingdoms crumble
in a sky that has forgotten how to answer.
my heart — battered, bruised, restless, relentless —
Will find its final resting place
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 8:38 AM UTC
My heart is a house
with too many evacuation plans,
too many goodbye notes stuffed in drawers,
Walls scorched from old flames
and yet somehow,
My enclosure still stands
A single candle burns in the window.
Somewhere inside,
a quiet part of me keeps sweeping the floors,
keeps putting fresh water on the nightstand,
just in case my heart
finds its way back home.
The sky hangs like a scroll,
letters scorched by lightning,
and I pace the ruins of my own patience,
calling to a God
who left a note on the table: “Gone for cigarettes, back never.”
Even the prophets look tired,
their sandals frayed,
their voices echoing in empty streets,
while I sweep the ashes of my own prayers
into neat little piles
and wonder if mercy is just another myth.
The cobbled roads are rivers of ash,
and I wade through them barefoot,
counting the remnants of prayers
that never found ears,
watching towers crumble
and cherubim sink into dust,
their wings weighed down with exhaustion,
Wondering if the Morning Star
Felt this way as he fell from grace
The air tastes of sulfur and burnt offerings,
as I walk through temples
icons overturned,
gold leaf flaking like old scabs.
No incense rises,
only smoke from forgotten altars
curling into a heaven
too distant to answer.
Ashes fall around me like angels
their wings whispering
names I can’t remember,
prayers I can’t finish
And still I walk,
through the ruins of prayers and prophets,
my feet scorched, my hands empty,
wandering a land of smoke and angels’ ashes,
while the Morning Star drifts overhead,
a witness to my exile,
watching kingdoms crumble
in a sky that has forgotten how to answer.
my heart — battered, bruised, restless, relentless —
Will find its final resting place
Biblical, Angel, devil, god, heartbreak, hope in hopelessness