The Undying Ember of My Evanescent Home

Beneath the roving amber skies,

I tread the road to yesteryears,

Where laughter stitched the woven breeze,

And twilight cradled forgotten tears.

There was a hearth, once stitched in flame,

Where seasons sang through broken panes,

Where hands held fast to calloused dreams,

And love was sown in whispered names.

The lilac dusk would find us there,

Barefoot on the battered wood,

Trading songs with moth and moon,

Spinning wishes where we stood.

How tender were the brittle hours,

When each breath stitched a tethered seam—

A child’s laughter, a mother’s prayer,

A lover’s ever-shifting dream.

Now ivy grips the crumbling stones,

The windows weep with silvered rain,

The scent of bread, the crackling fire—

All ghosted by the winds of pain.

Yet still I ache for embered light,

The half-told tales, the easy sigh,

The woven hush of evening’s fall,

The ancient hush of love nearby.

Oh, how we wore our hearts like thread,

Mending holes with stubborn hands,

We broke, we bent, we built again,

Forging worlds from grains of sand.

The hearth is gone, the song dispersed,

The roof lies low with memory’s weight,

But somewhere in the bones of me,

It sparks—a stubborn, hidden gate.

I feel it still beneath my skin,

The hum of all we dared to be,

A home stitched not with stones or wood,

But breath, and hope, and broken plea.

No map can guide me back to it,

No hand can weave the shattered glass,

Yet every step I take, somehow,

Returns me to that ghosted past.

The home we lose is never lost,

It lives in how we laugh and grieve—

It hums in every thread we spin,

It soars in every song we weave.

And though the earth has swallowed walls,

And time has stolen whispered names,

The flicker of that ancient flame

Still dances through my ragged veins.

I taste it on the salted wind,

I hear it in the robin's cry,

I feel it in the morning mist,

That kisses fields where old ghosts lie.

It lingers in the scent of rain,

It burns inside a lover's glance,

It shivers through the weeping grass,

It quickens in a fleeting chance.

We are the weavers of the hearth,

The carriers of broken light,

We stitch with hope what time unthreads,

We mend the falling shards of night.

And so I walk, and so I breathe,

With every footfall calling home,

Though stone may fall and wood may rot,

The spirit of that place still roams.

No hearth is built with hands alone,

No love confined to stone and clay—

It rises where our hearts belong,

It kindles when we choose to stay.

Stay not with hands, but with the soul,

Stay not with walls, but songs and flame,

For homes are made of yearning bold,

And love that dares to speak its name.

Thus in the marrow of my bones,

That vanishing place forever hums—

A ballad stitched with flame and rain,

A memory where my spirit drums.

Yet even now, when dusk descends,

I hear the echo of their song—

A call across the woven stars,

That bids the wandering soul belong.

Among the nettles and the ash,

Where broken beams kiss earth again,

I find a sprig of greening life,

A testament against the rain.

The walls may fall, the roofs may break,

The fields may drown in creeping gloom,

But what we built with fragile hands

Still hums beyond the shattered room.

A whisper in the autumn leaves,

A shadow on the silver loam,

A promise carved in bone and breath—

That nowhere are we truly alone.

I plant my footprints in the dust,

I raise my voice into the gale,

I stitch the sorrow to the sky,

And sail my heart beyond the pale.

For memory is not decay,

It is the loom from which we weave

The songs, the dreams, the tender hands,

The homes that time cannot bereave.

So let the night grow deep and vast,

Let silence flood the broken stair—

I carry still, within my chest,

The hearth that lived, and burned, and cared.

It sings inside the battered bones,

It dances on the ravaged floor,

It stokes the spirit’s quiet flame—

A home once lost, but never more.

And if I falter on my way,

Or lose my name in mist and foam,

Still I will carry through the dark—

The ember of my evanescent home

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