House Invasion

It stands in the reaching hands of green grass, a little house that weeps in the wind and whines from my bearing. The sound of my own weight is unfamiliar, the torture beyond my own skin unknown. I recognize only the muted flow of ignorance as the dream swallows me into obscurity. My memories run circulatory as the walls cave in. They heave in rejection, but are forced to digest what I am. All my sins are documented and piling in the backroom with the newspapers. Every vice splits open a new wound until the fleshy smell of rotting wood penetrates the dream. I’m compromised, my sliver of hope slipping away. My hope that this is where I am supposed to be. That I am not a beast intruding, but a child coming home.