Exiled Memoirs

I scorched sage
to murder memoirs.
Eclectic filiments
of phantom thought
left flickering
like malfunctioned lightbulbs
in the graying snow
of a sleepless three a.m.

I knelt on fallen rose petals
and etched their effigies,
defacing scrap metal mortuaries
where wounded essence
mourns tears, not yet dried.

Contentment wanders,
lost,
lamenting the way
empty cardboard boxes
begin to look like home.....