The white peels from the picket fence
that once was so immaculate.
The hearth of the home has gone cold,
but I remember its warmth.
A fire once blazed within the stone,
illuminating empty space.
No one now could call it home,
I still can't let it go.
Rebuilding may be a fruitless endeavor,
but ghosts of sorrow
and memories of mirth
urge the renovation forward.
Embers still smoldering in the fireplace,
serve as a subtle reminder;
This empty shell that once was whole,
cannot be made a home alone.
YOU ARE READING
Home
PoetryA collection of poetry that has been in the works for a few years, and is likely to continue growing and changing.
