I’m tethered to my childhood seat.
Across the table from parents two.
A brother and two sister sheep.
Whisky eyes of brown-gold hue.
We hold our hands like gentle kin.
Each others warmer than their own.
words caressing the dinner plates
How hard is it to be alone.
It is not often we get to be
Together in each others spoken tongues.
The floorboards creek with tapping heels.
I can breathe, my eyes stay fixed.
It surely feels…. Surely it feels? Like..?
I cannot speak for the orphans bare.
The ones where their fathers are not seated here.
But coffined in distant lands warring with faceless foes.
Ones they truly do not know.
Can we ask that light be on their path.
Amongst the crooked broken shards
That all memories of dinners past
Fill their eyes with home.
About the Creator
Apollo Derülo
Wayward adventurist trying to make sense of this mad existence. Using creativity to tress the constructs of his reality.
Keep reading
More stories from Apollo Derülo and writers in Poets and other communities.
Worked at a haunted elementary school
I worked as a custodian at an elementary school for about a year. My dad, who had previously worked there, used to tell me stories about the place being haunted. He would come home and excitedly recount the ghost's latest antics, eager to see what it would do next. I always thought he was just being his usual goofy self, spinning interesting tales that may or may not have been true. I had never personally encountered a ghost before or believed they were real, but that all changed during my time at the school.
By spooky session7 days ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.