The cracked door purrs and
hums as it is stroked by
the cold, dark ghosts in
the night’s wind,

Carrying the scents of home
from an unfinished mug
by the window
through lungs of smoke,

Soft walls scrawled with a
tradition and a heritage
from farthest lands on
which I lean like a rock,

Beneath the white sheets
that I mark with
flames from a golden dragon
held on the left, or the right,

This place is my home,
my prison, my saving grace –
My collection of memories,
sprayed on a furrowed face.



So, what do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s