Home is where the heart is, but  what if the heart is nowhere?

What if the heart is a tennis ball, volleyed from person to person,
place to place?

No comfort zone, no middle net, no ball crew to at least hold you back
before the next throw.

Slapped by racquets with surprising ease and frivolity, the heart is light,  airy,
but blackening slowly.

What if your heart wanders through the night,  an ebony  ghost, capturing,  entangling, enticing

those hearts that already have a home? Swiftly pumping yourself into them, hot scarlet blood for fixing yourself

Fixing them instead.

Their bodies,  minds, souls set alight with your fire, but the fire in you is quickly extinguishing.

You are dry rot and stale bread and wickless candles,  left in the sun
to decay.

But you are a saviour.

What if your heart was a weary traveller,  no home to speak of, no place to rest your head, therefore no heart to boast of?

What if your heart was an impenetrable facade, stolen features put into one,  
to hide ***** deeds, to owe no one?

What if your heart is your home, taking in yourself, and giving hope, sprouting
out the things everyone else owns
to hide the vulnerable reality
behind, alone?

I can't take it anymore.
Body pounding, heart stopping, this frozen fire unwinding.
And I'm feeling faint.
As the world's a-turnin' and I'm lying here burnin'.
'Cause no one knows,
and no one feels
and no one listens
anymore.
I can't take it anymore.

Oh my little Hangman
oh, how I mourn for
your soul.
Charred and blackened,
oh, how the wrong vowels,
how they pierce and bleed,
black ink
ever so quickly
forming the guillotine . . .
Little man, why?
Why do you want to
commit suicide?
The words, they pound,
and yes, the phonics punch,
but little Hangman,
you have your artist.
Allow the ink
to dry, at least.

The plates had been lain out, and the glasses standing well.
The tablecloth was sitting, candles dancing swell
The clock is there a-ticking, but the oven is a-tocking,
Papa's waiting at the head, Mama panicking 'bout what's blocking
Sister's playing hide and seek, with brother dear who's much too meek.
Finally, the platter comes, filled and lavished with the good 'uns
The wine is here, share it out, it's much too nice to not talk about
Slice the words and give it out, pour the poetry and share it.

The autumnal colour; greeny-brown, the colour inbetween
Swaying, gliding, dying before it touches the concrete
And the burgundy shaking, fragility making
It all too dangerous to stay alive

The razor earthquake, the autumn dying
The blackbirds houses; nigh
Shivering, falling, burns awaking
The end is here, the end is now