memories are ghosts that float within the walls of your broken house,
following you around and lurking about like a sneaky famished mouse.
some ghosts are kind, while some ghosts are definitely not,
for some could comfort your heart with their own warmth, others throw your soul in bitter tea so hot.
the burn scars may stay on your skin forever engraved,
reminding you every time of your naivety, causing you enraged,
but allowing yourself company from the gentle ghosts who may
lead you to the white house on the bumpy way,
where they all come from,
rescuing you in their clothed arms from the flames, and from your internal slum,
will definitely grant your a cup of warm, red hibiscus tea,
sweetened with their own extractions from trees of tranquility.