Daughter of the dust

Daughter of the dust and the sigh that shifts the ashes.
Prisoner of the broken streetlight and patchwork blankets.
Families of drunken splotches cloud my vision overcast
as I tiptoe the line of consciousness, don't fall off.
Weather men warn of storms,  
a match is lit.
 
Roots branch down from heaven in jagged outlets of radiance,
water droplets forming streams which meander through  
cement valleys to plunge into gutters.
A concrete, water drumming, symphony.
I find it strange that as years pass,
the air still bites as sharp as before.
 
Silence lets go of his breath as the  
sun rises groggily over the horizon,
birds opening bleary eyes to serenade
the new day.
 
My soul burns a hungry warmth,  
urging fire into my veins.
I am ready to live,
as dust blows away with this new wind.
I will build a home.