Nameless is the land I walk upon,
despite the flags mounted in wind
and the bloodstains on every front door.

This body is borrowed from the stars,
both a million years old and barely new,
despite the gathering of age in my face.

All money is spent in vacant assumption;
as if these inventions of value do anything
but strip all items of their worth.

Dreaded is the will I place in travelling,
knowing intrinsically about arbitrary birth:
that if I was not born on land, I would simply drown.

I have paid for the sounds of my guitar,
but I lose ownership in their effortless travel
through the air - left to sound through the aeons.

This house is nothing but Earth upon Earth.
Watch as the weeds emancipate through the wall;
it is the people who have forgotten their place.

These old friends are not mine, but obsessions.
Memories of idealised time that I cling to,
as toys are swept up and sold in parts.

Passing are these clothes upon my back,
despite the fashion of my walk
and your letters in my old blazer pocket.

Rationed is my life upon this planet.
All that I meet will fall away,
and all that I take, is returned.