The Voice Issue 29: May/June 2017 - Page 46

Neverhome

On her way,

eyes piercing,

burning blue like the touch of ice.

Windswept hair stuffed behind red rimmed ears.

Jaded lips ripe with the secrets of the ash

she flicked out into the mud stained street.

Heels grated into the asphalt.

Searching, always.

Walking, waiting.

Neverfinding.

Gum snaps in the corner of her mouth,

thunder in the cavernous parts of her teeth,

bared and broken, cavities of the neverfound.

Sickly pale skin tinted and rouged with yellows and greens.

Arms wrapped around a thick frame.

Fingers nimble and greedy.

A perfect portrait of despair.

Her limbs are malleable to the wind,

stretching, seeking something pure and heavy.

She left her house when she was old enough to run.

Her legs twisting awkwardly,

galloping away from a yellowing building and sizzling fire pans filled with flowers.

She's been looking ever since she could leave,

for a real home she could run to.

A sunset streaked in blue and gold,

the open resistance of the sea.

Her mother taught her never to hitchhike,

so she runs.

Always racing the cars as they zip by.

Always peeling her eyes open, even underwater.

Always hoping to find it.

Her father taught her how to cook up delicious lies and sell them for money.

So her pockets are full but it weighs her down so she has to empty them.

People follow her, collecting the coins

Mesmerized by her struggle to find a home.

She runs at night because it makes her feel dangerous.

She runs towards the sun because it burns

in only a way that love can.

Sometimes she stops,

pauses by a minty house

or a steel apartment complex.

But she neverstays.

She is searching, always.

walking, waiting.

Neverhome

writing to the challenge: photo10

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