Homeland has first appeal
Until the finite break
The unfiltered air spits
Troubled feelings on me
No weather sun or salt
Desires my reasoning
I long for warm childhood
Theirs and mine long put abed
This bothered place I love
Unfettered criticism
Only binds my music sounds
Of heart and falling tear
As I leave them for France
Always afraid to go.
Comments 1
There is so much of Plath in your poetic style Sheighle.