January 17th, 2020


I can smell the burnt insolation still
I can feel the freezing wind blow that day
water hitting my ankles, the house fills
with foam, black flakes, it doesn't look okay
and my parents don’t look fine, not at all
dumbfounded, dead lost eyes look for home.
Something. Something that has not been touched yet
by fire, firefighters, flood, or foam
struggling, we can’t grab what we can get
because what’s left is covered in thick ice
that froze clothing and my books to the ground
cemented to a shelf is Paradise
and Frankenstein, Dracula wasn’t found.
“They’re just things” a somber whisper from Dad
looking over his paintings, starts to add

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