Immy

Eunoia,
she passes by me,
her mind overflowing with beauty,
her thoughts an endlessly expanding painting,
one only she will ever get to see.
Kilig,
I see her and the butterflies start once again,

I am alone,
for the first time ever,
I am alone.
They say I will be safe here,
that as my habitat dwindles,
I need them to protect me.
But I can hear the calls and cries of the others,
that aren't the same as me,

My friend can hear the screams of trees,
she says they keep her up at night,
and at first,
no one would believe her.

She told us that they called for help,
begged for mercy as the forests died,

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.