The air is full of dust.
The chairs are rotting, creaking planks of wood.
The roof can cave in, given the right moment to expose the sun–
The heating sun that beats upon this sickly place.
My family's faces were eaten alive by termites, infesting the photo frames,
And a flicker of the lights puts this sleeping place to bed,
Where it belongs had I the right ideas inside my head.
If I was any wiser I would leave at once without a twist of neck.
I would run away and maybe change my name.
I'd never think of looking back...
Yet here I am unwise. The floor is *******, never rubbed or rinsed,
And populated by more wallpaper than the walls.
From the bathroom leaks a familiar yet appauling smell.
My family's faces were eaten, deceased, by maggots.
My dad drowned in the bathtub, and my brother in the sink.
My mother lifeless on the bed because she was confused for steak.
My uncle always said to me that luxury is for the saved.
As for the rest there is no other place to go,
Because my home is at the grave.
Where is your home?
