The place i call home,
is silent and still,
empty and sad,
with rooms to fill,
...
it's spoors crimson red as it raveges on,
dragging it's limb body behind it,
more spiritually wounded than physically,
hunting for a safe edifice,
...
Writing for me has never come easily, but yet I forage onward.)
A Place I Call Home
The place i call home,
is silent and still,
empty and sad,
with rooms to fill,
The place i call home
is broken and worn,
with walls that are stained,
with a foundation that crumbles,
crumbles in the warm summer rain
The place i call home,
is small and worn,
icelated with no one around,
not by a city or town,
yet here i wait,
i wait for you,
who breaks the silence with a joke,
paints the walls with a coat,
who bring s life to this place once again,
fills the room with flowers and gifts,
i know your not a myth,
this place i call home,
where silence remains,
walls that are stained,
doors that are broke,
with room to fill,
this place were i wait,
and wait just for you.