Immy

What makes a home?
is it the new door mat,
worn from weeks of snow and rain,
but never from the weight of a shoe.
Or maybe the fireplace, 
with warm light that fills the room,
heating nothing but dust.

My ghosts try to speak,
With wails and whines,
With pencils and paper,
They write words down in lines,
They shriek when I take it,
And burn it to ash,
As they watch all their hope,
Take off and then crash.

Poppy fields of red and black,
filling my vision with ladybug petals,
I feel a warm breeze on my back,
closing my eyes against the sun,
and shapes flutter on a black screen,
forming monsters that I can't outrun,

Pictures,
I take as many as I can,
trapping moments in 2d squares,
hoping that I can save the memories,
knowing that all I'll have is a fleeting snapshot in my mind,
and a picture,
of my friends,
of my family,

I'm frozen,
with my hand above a key,
I try to imagine a pen in my hand,
but it doesn't help,
so I write,
"I'm frozen,"
but then I stall,
no ideas in my head,
just an empty brain,
I put on music,