They say it’s where the heart lives, but home is just the wreckage, of all the life you danced with, doors closed on all the courage, loft full of all the baggage, fate sealed in windows blinded, kitchen neat & tidied, sink full of dirty dishes hiding, four walls a prison crying.
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Published by Mags Winthrop
Prolific poet, comms creature, wry writer, travel trojan, life lover. View all posts by Mags Winthrop