What is home?
A warm hearth filled with golden light,
or a black void brimming with screams?
Either way, both are a home.
To everyone in the crowd
that is this world,
at least one is a home.
No matter the hearth,
whether it is burning or put out,
the fire warms one home,
whereas the smoke chokes the other.
One is bursting with smiles and laughter,
but under it all
lie vicious intents
and poisonous thoughts.
And one where no one dares to speak,
they still care.
Where in one the flower gets replaced,
the other remains standing, alive,
on just the hope lingering in the air.
That one day,
both homes will have feet returning,
walls echoing,
and the past finally slipping away
to haunt again