POEM 113: HOME WHEREVER
She walks alone
She both implode
Who would believe her tale if told?
Who would believe this warmth is cold?
She knows home is just a stone throw
But the chip’s fallen
Off she dashes into the woods
Where flowering trees and fruitless thorns
May pierce her bare soul until it bursts
Into a shower of tears she cannot hoard.
In the aching tranquility of her wounds
Homes wherever her sole once trod
Homes the distant thoughts her mind do roam
When his cuddles feels like a bed of stone.