Folkshouse Cemetery

My apartment has officially become home.  
My folks' house, a cemetery  
where past achievements stand rigid like tombstones
and where old struggles jut out  
in places they aren't really supposed to,  
lost bones  
refusing to decompose.  
 
Those dirty-white vertebrae,  
so occasional and undeniable,  
out of place only because they're showing—  
yes, it's the bones that catch my eye  
more than anything else here.  
 
Mom's idea of me  
sits motionless,  
a crestfallen carved angel  
taking too long to crumble.  
 
I wonder if she will ever know  
the real beat of my wings.  
 
I remember praying in honest agony  
to be seen,  
trying to rewrite my epitaph in my own bright blood.  
 
Now I know better  
than to do try to do anything  
but take my rest here  
 
and catch up with the ancient oak branches  
still living,  
those dear old friends who sheltered me  
and watched me grow.  
 
Now I know  
this place will not be changed  
or moved,  
 
for its purpose is to stay the same.  
 
I shall come back with no more vengeance—  
only to marvel at this stone-still beauty I once called home,  
 
to watch the sun wash the graves  
with dappled kisses of awakening  
 
and to feel, in the forgiveness of moonlight,  
just how alive I am.