Home

Home is the place I feel least welcome. A silence wrapped around me like a giant cloak. Memories afflicting my conscience with paintings on the wall. A cold fire burns, the sounds of the dying are the only disturbance. The dancing blaze spreading its wings across my frightened face in sparks of sporadic heat. My tongue tastes the musty air, my nostrils catch the scent of decay. My footsteps echo through the hall, like an army on the march. I step outside through the blown door. The morning wind coursing through my hair as a chill breeze makes me shiver. Two golden sightless eyes appear behind my hands. The night vanished but the darkness remained. A single tear falls down to the dead, dry ground and I turn back to resume the care of wounded. Home is the place I am most invited.

Author's Note

Any and all comments are welcome.