BROKEN

VINITA AGRAWAL

 
 

This broken home is like a chopped tree trunk

Showing rings of life ruthlessly axed
 

Leaving behind an upturned patellar face of pain

Breath broken in a cinch
 

Its lode of warmth is plundered

Rime’s leftovers straggle the trashcan like cold meat

 
I sense the condors circling above, in my bones

As they scavenge for the rich, juicy morsels of a home, now dead

 
The aged wind is weary of reviving fires so often doused

It’s shoulders too weak to carry ashes heavy with severing

 
So this is how things break in this world

This is how hope loses altitude

 
There must be someone to blame

There must also be someone who will lead me back to myself

 
 

∘∘∘