The place that I once called home,
Its former glory, faded,
Now in ruins, its own tomb.
The overgrowth of undergrowth,
The rusted doors,
The collapsing pillars,
Hurts my heart right to its core.
The garden is all but gone,
The lemon tree's skeleton remains,
The periwinkles had went to sleep,
The sight of everything makes me weep.
The pine tree no longer stands,
Its scent no longer there,
My hiding place uprooted,
The memories are hard to bear.
The floor is filthy,
The paintings have rotted away,
The dining table chewed by termites,
The walls giving into decay.
My bed now covered in dust,
Tells me how small i was at the time,
My fingers graced that tiny pillow,
As i hold my broken wind chimes.
In that very spot,
I saw my father hit my mother,
In that other spot,
He had tried to strangle her.
From the fallen pillar i stood,
Remembering how i cowered in fear,
Pressing myself against its once full structure,
I shed a single tear.
The house is empty now,
So are the hearts of its past inhabitants,
Scarred with regrets and memories,
Left for a questionable amount of months.
72 to be exact,
Been awhile hasn't it?
To think my mother,
Did not want me to come back,
Just showed me how much love
Our family truly lacked.
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