As I walked through the wreckage of my past, I realized with a vague sense of dread that this used to be home once.
And with a twisted sense of awe I wonder why it will never be enough. Why the beast, after tasting a single drop of blood, will return to drain all the rest, licking its teeth before stalking for more. Why they were not satisfied with claiming our peace, our contentment, our suburban state of imperfect living and came back again to claim both our home and the lives of those whose blood will ever be more safe than those who ran, seeking self-perseverance.
And though we were never out upon the streets, indeed, we did lose our home.
A hand stretches out timidly to stroke some dusty memory and remembrance, sharp and bright with the promise of pain, overtakes her.
An instinctive smile stretches across her agitated lips but she is too lost in her visions of what once was to correct it.
( The poet cannot go on for she is both too lazy and too emotional to bleed anymore ink onto this goddamn page)