The Cost

i’ve been walking

and wherever i go

the ground is covered in ash

from the top of a small hill
i see a house thoroughly burned

and yet still standing

when i set foot inside

there is one room intact

inside this room

i see a single, small cabinet 

with one drawer

within, all i find are 

old, stained staples

tape

paper

pencil.
and my name

this was my room
and those staples,

this tape
they kept my mouth shut

i look out the single window and
remember

i burned this country side.
with one word i brought this house down.
with a sentence the hills went up in flames.

engulfed,
become the things that can hear my voice.

i quietly pick up the tape
wrap it firmly around my head

and seal my mouth shut

with the pencil in hand
i lower myself to the floor

and write on that pad of paper.

this pad is nearly full of scribbles
and mistakes.

i seem to never learn