HOME

Home is an oscine bird,
Its silent whispers ricochets with sinister foreboding in the chamber of our souls.
Our legs have unwillingly learnt to synch with the music of our sobs,
Our eyes have become two giant balls
baptized with the compelling scenes of incest and murder.
Tomorrow bears the air of a broken father,
Mother has told us tales about the heaviness of the emptiness it boasts of.
Hope is a hero that fell sometimes in history
But like the tale of Christ,
Its coming back has been chewed down to us by worn out mother hens
who’s lost their dexterity waiting for what’s not.
The path that leads home is a path
littered with pills and toxic potions.
Its doleful walls are heralds of pain and misery.
Home has never been our sanctuary,
For home, lies in the belly of the earth.