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Home Is Where The Heart Dies
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Dark Poetry Down to the south, the winter here is warm– and, sadly enough, I miss the cold.
Endless drifts of the purest white and trees that died from the bitter frostbite.
There, glittering ice covers bare branches and the side of the mountain gives way to the trenches.
Here, we hid in the hollow remnants of the forest.
The woods are empty now, and as I imagine– as I gaze out over this blank canvas– I know I have never seen a place so peaceful.
So serene are the surroundings that I once lived.
And oh, how I took for granted the beauty that was offered to me, sacrificed for me.
So far away is the town where I grew– where I became this hallowed monster, this beloved whore.
But as I recall, I can almost feel the wind, just barely taste the air, freezing and woven with the heady scent of burning.
I can vaguely see the smoke that rises.
From stone chimneys, it winds up toward the sky, emanating from stoves filled with smoldering leaves, wood, and ash.
The souls that burn, the ones who create this billowing grey, seek to sire, to conceive a comfort.
They induce the warmth in their loving sanctuaries.
Yet I, I have been sheltered in ice, given not but frigid, distant affection.
But as I said, I miss the cold, and so I welcome it.
I embrace this surreal memory; of our fragile glass-like house, of myself staring through frosted bay windows.
For it is now that I understand regret, in knowing that because I left, my heart is never home.
