BROKEN HOME.

In the house where echoes linger,
shadows dance with whispered sorrow.
Walls remember the laughter
of better times, when love
wove itself into every crevice,
and joy was the air we breathed.

A door slams in the distance,
splintering the silence with its anger.
Words, once tender, now cut deep,
leaving wounds that never heal,
scars that mar the heart's soft surface.
Here, love is a frayed thread,
tugged to its breaking point.

The table, set for dinners never shared,
sits in a hollow room of empty chairs.
Meals once shared with warmth
are now consumed in solitude,
the clink of forks a mockery of togetherness.
Memories gather dust,
each one a reminder of what was lost.

Photographs on the mantle,
faces frozen in happier times,
now seem like cruel illusions,
tricks of light and shadow,
taunting with their unreachable past.
Eyes that once shone with hope
now reflect a sadness unspoken,
a language of pain known only by the heart.

Children's laughter, a ghostly sound,
haunts the hallways like a song forgotten.
Their innocence, a casualty
of grown-up wars waged with bitter words.
Small hands reach out for comfort,
finding only the cold absence
of a love that once cradled them.

Nights stretch long and empty,
the bed a vast expanse of loneliness.
Once a place of tender whispers
and dreams shared under starlit skies,
now it holds the weight of silence,
a heavy, suffocating presence.
Sleep comes in fitful fragments,
dreams shattered by the reality
of waking to a broken dawn.

In the garden, flowers bloom
without witness, their beauty
lost on the eyes that no longer see.
Nature's persistence, a cruel contrast
to the decay within these walls.
Roots dig deep, holding on
while hearts struggle to find
a reason to keep beating.

Every room a battlefield,
where the past and present clash,
and hope is a weary soldier,
fighting against the pull of despair.
Yet, in the rubble of this broken home,
there lingers a stubborn spark,
a glimmer of something
that refuses to be extinguished.

Love, though battered and bruised,
remains a resilient force,
hiding in the corners,
waiting for a chance to mend.
In the fragments of shattered dreams,
it seeks to find a way to heal,
to stitch together the pieces
into something new, something whole.

This broken home, a testament
to the fragility of human hearts,
stands as a reminder that
from the ashes, something can rise.
Not the same, but perhaps stronger,
forged in the fire of sorrow,
tempered by the tears of loss.

And so, we learn to live with the cracks,
to see the beauty in the broken,
to find strength in the scars.
For in every ending,
there is a beginning,
a chance to rebuild,
to create a new story
from the fragments of the old.

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