Something Less Than Home
by T.C. Anderson
I feel my history is wanting
of a certain importance or interest,
for my past is mottled with
distrusted voices and
bonds of weak blood,
but it falls to little more than
an empty bowl of dust and snakes
lined with shriveled shreds of hope,
a place I could never bring myself
to call home.
A forest with a bed and a fireplace,
an autumn of memories and promises never said,
a roomful of accidents and murmurs
of birthed beliefs and broken blood,
of righteous secrets and growing ghosts…
I will not find tomorrow here.
This is something less than home.
of a certain importance or interest,
for my past is mottled with
distrusted voices and
bonds of weak blood,
but it falls to little more than
an empty bowl of dust and snakes
lined with shriveled shreds of hope,
a place I could never bring myself
to call home.
A forest with a bed and a fireplace,
an autumn of memories and promises never said,
a roomful of accidents and murmurs
of birthed beliefs and broken blood,
of righteous secrets and growing ghosts…
I will not find tomorrow here.
This is something less than home.
T.C. Anderson is a writer and artist based in Houston, Texas, with work published in literary journals such as Capsule Stories, Pages Penned in Pandemic: A Collective, Zimbell House Publishing short story anthology "The Dead Game," and more. Her upcoming poetry collection, "The Forest," will serve as the basis of an art installation of the same name being developed with artist Mari Omori. When not writing, Anderson is an award-winning graphic designer currently studying for her BA in Graphic Design and Media Arts at Southern New Hampshire University.