Home
The angry ticking of the wall’s fiend,
Washes the troubles and time away,
To Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
I wish it could drown me faster,
So that I could tour Europe with you Mom,
I miss you,
And love you dearly,
And wish I were with you,
And with each tick,
Comes a sharp but fleeting pain,
Piercing me like a scalpel in my heart’s core.
The wispy air,
Of this foreign place,
Or is it really home?
Copyright © Melissa Ross | Year Posted 2007
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