Coming Home


Veracious vines claim the once opulent, now sullen, trees.
Windows forever scarred from ash and trapped anguish.
Through the door that clings to its hinges,
the walls bear the soot and breathe of years long gone,
as if tar painted into indistinct grey.
Laughter no longer echoes from the chipped marble,
now too dull and lifeless to reflect the light that seeps
through the tattered curtains.
Nor does life, even in its most meager form,
emanate from the beings long since trapped within the walls.
Time, like vines, claims the all but vacant space,
and the ubiquitous phrase of home no longer carries meaning.

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