I return home dressed in the rags of mutiny,

my face veiled with the woven threads of shame.

This time there's no homecoming party,

no greetings, no pleasantries exchanged,

no wintry stories of war to tell around a warm fire-

because this stone is deaf and would never speak.

The petal-bare flower wreath atop this stone

has wilted and grown weary as it waited for me—

as it patiently burned away its flickering flame—

and the tragic remnants of shriveled flower petals

must've been tossed, lost forever, in the wind.

I lock the squeaky doors, shut the dusty windows,

and bury my nose in the fading scent of her dresses.

And, touching dirty mirrors and rusting combs,

I remember her twinkling eyes and her fair hair with my fingertips.

The fight was lost and this house is fraying still…

To me, there's an eternity to hide,

and an eternity to live among the dead.