Mom’s House
These moth's wing-thin walls,
awash in kids' cries,
cooking smells,
dropped things.
Tempers thrown.
At times, humming with thundering hurt silence.
These crisp-thin walls, vibrate, the tuning fork to our improv'ed, mismatched band
of misfits, timing off,
just out of touch.
I can hear you chew your food
through these walls,
that contract in the late hours of doubt,
swelling with hope at dawn.
These walls
house your prayers,
the bones of a life
set piece by piece,
picked over by memory.
These yellowed walls,
tumifying with tear-salted words,
held within them.
Mom’s House
These moth-wing's thin walls,
awash in kids' cries,
cooking smells,
dropped things.
Tempers thrown.
At times, humming with thundering hurt silence.
These crisp-thin walls, vibrate, the tuning fork to our improv'ed, mismatched band
of misfits, timing off,
just out of touch.
I can hear you chew your food
through these walls,
that contract in the late hours of doubt,
swelling with hope at dawn.
These walls
house your prayers,
the bones of a life
set piece by piece,
picked over by memory.
These yellowed walls,
tumifying with tear-salted words,
held within them.
#ProseChallenge #ProseChallenge21