Poem 7



Packing my bags,
Going to home.
The real joy,
While having many storms.
Counting days,
Which says, few days more,
Then you will be at your door.
Where the roots originates,
From a leaf to tree,
That made me free.
Does not matter, how old I grow,
But I still miss my childhood pillow.
Father‘s love to Mother’s lap,
But now there is a care gap.
We hide feelings so not to worry each other,
Is the reason that we are still together?
Leaving this aside, let’s go to ride.
To make all moments, again alive.
Bitter is the truth, safer are the lies,
That how we manage to flies.
School books to childhood dome,
I accept that, I miss my home.

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