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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

The feeling of home is a fickle one. Never belonging where you want to, it's where you feel it. You feel at home when you're immobile.

Through the condensation sitting on the window

a tree stands outlined against the grey, clouded sky

peeking through calling for attention

in the ruins of a cold, December night

 

Branches rustle at its mention 

shedding flurries of snow onto the ground

firmly it lifts its chest

awaiting my response

 

Breeze after breeze the skeletal figure trembles

never submitting into the cold

as much as it has lost

the last living plant stands

 

My eyes isolate this being

from all it is surrounded by

I am

surrounded

 

Stripped is the joy

this life once had

persisting on living

the only way it knows how

 

Here I sit

in December

 

Thankful, I'm home


Submitted: December 26, 2019

© Copyright 2020 Jay Charles Owen. All rights reserved.

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