The ghostly face
Of our mistakes, the sorry-stamped road
The foul language in a tribunal of love
The unnecessary slur at the end of a sentence
The neglect of fallow earth. The idle shoulders estranged of touch
We make our own slip-ups. We err when we are the closest
And home is just a revolving place
With open doors and the occasional bolted lock
We trick ourselves to believe, we are decent human beings
When we ransack heart near us.
We err to be human, we blunt fate
With fickle deed. And sorry is just a word
That depreciates, a word that connect the dots to something meaningful.
The open door clause to reclaim lost turf.
And there’s something beautiful
About prophylaxis. How we weatherproof
Relationships, with an attentive ear
A kind word, and color from time to time
One’s home, with fresh coats of paint.