Home or Tomb?
The walls of my new house do not talk to me..
They mock me with their stoic indifference
This new air here troubles me
Urging me to gouge my own eyes out
Blinding me to every reality.
The fragrance hangs like poison
In rather thick decayed air
Burning my throat red.
Every breath feels like a chain
Clinging me to this ceiling
But not letting me die easily
My eyes weep gray memories.
I am a prisoner of my own making
Trapped in this house of sorrows
The darkness within matches the
gloom without
Here walls offer me no warmth
Just some cold icy disdain.
I sense walls growing closer to other
Taking a chance to have me all
The ceiling looming low
Doors opening to nowhere
I suffocate in the closing space
And ponder how homes transform to a tomb.
In a rush to find who I am within,
I’ve overlooked the comfort of where I’ve been.
