The shivering wind cuts through my quilt,
my blistered skin creaks perished blood.
A Chip-less oak door quakes in its hinges.
Empty curtains float ominously
as tufts of air push through its holes.
Stumbling down stairs,
floor boards scream in pain.
The hollow doorway bends unnaturally.
Fingerprint covered windows
lock the memories inside.
My sisters tiny hands
inside of the reflection of mine.
Another void doorframe stands frozen.
Missing tiles filled in with
dusty beetles and squash-able worms.
Stepping into the ataxia garden,
thorns strangle corpses of roses.
My Mother almost hovering
on withered grass.
Her vanes gasp for breath.
Above, shameful branches tree together;
vines noose around my Fathers stretched throat.
Moss grows inside the gapping fissure of his arms.
The grudged knife glued in the grip of a fragile fist.
A droplet of red life clings on the blades point.
My knees weaken to the pebbles below me.
Winter leafs shatter as I fall.
In front of me stand three cadaverous tombstones.
The pieces of my family buried underneath,
where are mine?
Points: 279
Reviews: 34
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