Ayushi Chandra‘s poem: Coming Home

Coming home is sad

It’s like watching a landscape of green devoured by the imminent rain of Western clouds

Slow and tiresome, the feeling grips your tongue, a poisonous serpent waiting for annihilation

You remember all the good things, the garden where your mother bought new pots and kept them, the fuzzy terrace of your friendships, the dining table 

where your father always sat alone to eat.

He never spoke, neither did you

Coming home is suffocating

You think its nice to be back but they chain you like a sheep.

Dreaming, voices of sheep bleating come faltering. They are dying again this year.

A cloud shaped tear envelops your secret corner, the wound of longing overpours starting to salvage the papers of love.

Coming home is awful

It’s October and the house stinks of dead moths and nostalgia.

The curtains sift the dust from the outside world and once again, drags your hands into the black corridors.

you were cut from a different cloth of malaise and wet skirts, drenched by a sad moonlight.

You remained silent despite the horrors bordering the doors

The cost of coming home and never returning haunts you again

Carrying the weight of time

Coming home is like digging up the moist earth, hoping to find a seed

It remains destroyed somewhere between the past and future.

There’s no smell, no remnant, no faith

But a distant death like somnolence.

 Ayushi Chandra is a 22 year old design student passionate in story telling and writing. She loves poems and sketching. Her other hobbies include listening to mythological podcasts and watching films.

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