deepundergroundpoetry.com

Coming Home

�
Dirt slaps eyes �
air sizzles � �
impossible makeshift houses � �
lean and creak in the wind � �
Children lay hands � �
over swollen bellies � �
all with the same listless stare � �
some even smile � �
mercilessly unraveling your heart � �
their bones scream for flesh � �
as death dabs his eau de cologne � �
without a word � �
��
The strongest � � �
cling to the choke of your footsteps � � �
examining your spoor in the dust � �
with the hope you may leave something � �
anything � �
even a worn out rag � �
would be riches to fight for � �
but you know you have nothing more � � �
and they cannot feed on hope alone� �

Now coming home has another meaning � � �
turning the key to a different world � � �
where suddenly you feel dirtier �
than the flies � �
and every time you turn a tap �
or switch on a light � �
there they are-- � �
feasting on the guilt � �
in a corner of your yard