WHEN WE BECOME HOMELESS.

When home becomes scary;
That each corners are painted with mother's blood
And father's voice turns croaky
As he tells the tales of the Sambisa monsters,
Then shall we go, laid beneath the smiling stars
Telling our pains to the rising moon -
We'll carve ourselves into pots of hope
Filled with waters of smiles to drink from.

I am Emmanuel
©2018.