It’s so quiet here and I feel so cold.
This place no longer feels like home.
The serenity had been blown away
By the sirens of vague interest.
Home is now a hot hut,
Too hot to live in
Yet, the only place we have.
Crickets chirping at us at nights;
We have become the muse of their laughter.
No place like home,
But when home is now a den,
We would run,
Away from the huddles of him
Who seeks our head in our very home.
This crypt is cryptic.
Cryptically criticized by critiques.
In our home,
We watch our future
Ebb away by the fanta
Of the teem.