POETRY ON MEDIUM

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POETRY — FREE FORM

Our home is what we see up from a dead sleep, a home that is soft and warm, bright and gentle. Some of us grow into cold embraces and angry memories. Some of us still love the idea of a warm home, even as a past that’s so vague and messy. Others fear the warmth, we find in far corners of the world. Isn’t that just the nature of a human, to fear every single flame that resembles the fire that burned their childhood? Home was warm. How did it turn so hot to bear? It was a shade to hide not the monster to hide away from. My love for my home will never fade, it will stay as the stubborn child who refuses to forget, those stairs they ran down and fell, the love they received after till healed, the smiles of their mother when she made them a bird out of paper and hands of their father, that lifted them high above in the air. Birds are now dried and asleep, the air reeks of sulphur and chokes the little baby that once dreamt to fly, now sit alone in a room full of strangers, looking for one familiar touch that could take them back home.