There is no peace beyond my door,
the streets roar like a restless sea.
They sell me light by the second hand,
then charge my soul for what won’t be.
I ran until the road ran out,
yet fear was waiting, calm and still.
You cannot lose a named-in fate
that bends your will against your will.
Outside pours pleasure like borrowed wine,
sweet for a sip, then gone too fast.
Joy there burns like a paper sun,
bright enough only while it lasts.
Home is the place where noise gives up,
where walls remember who I am.
Here my soul sleeps like a wounded god,
finally safe in a quiet land.