deepundergroundpoetry.com
Qurencia
Some people feel like home.
But they don't seem that welcoming to their bone.
But for the people around, they are warm like a hug,
Not just a mere house.
They resolve the other person's cry, without heed.
But for them, it becomes buried.
Willowing out their vine,
not of hate but of relief, of comfort, of peace,
like the wild flowers in the forest's crease.
They sit alone, until acknowledged,
but once felt,
They become the winter's blanket.
But even when the blanket retire,
their presence lights up the bonfire.
But they don't seem that welcoming to their bone.
But for the people around, they are warm like a hug,
Not just a mere house.
They resolve the other person's cry, without heed.
But for them, it becomes buried.
Willowing out their vine,
not of hate but of relief, of comfort, of peace,
like the wild flowers in the forest's crease.
They sit alone, until acknowledged,
but once felt,
They become the winter's blanket.
But even when the blanket retire,
their presence lights up the bonfire.
Published 31st May 2024
Author's Note
This poem was inspired during my lows, felt like writing about that topic and I wrote.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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