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.