Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Patron Saint of Painful Regrets

You are my home.

Though you elude me,

I am still thawed,

awed by your warmth.

Gazing,

glimpsing at your form,

never forgetting the way you towered over a trembling child,

that was lost to the loneliness of life.

You are miraculous snowfall,

sent from God,

to replace my mistakes,

keeping me safe,

inside a crypt,

where I can recover,

doves dancing on my lips,

as I sleep sweetly.

I asked you once,

if you’d forgive me,

but I wonder,

if I can forgive myself?

I wonder if I deserve damnation,

for all the things,

I always thought I’d never do.

I wanted to be young forever,

the way you remember,

the way you saw me last,

when life was just learning,

and growing.

I want to be pure,

but I’m afraid,

there is no such thing.

The knives in my sides,

are not Roman,

but of my own making.

You are my home,

but I don’t know

if I’ll ever return.

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