Home isn’t something on the path.
It’s something you feel, someone you see.
Twisting trees upon the breeze; memories of life
And leaves. A splash of wine that sets you free,
A ghost of heaven and its pleas.
Home is an edge that bleeds,
Gloating. It changes, grows, something homely,
Something foaming.
Something clawing for the morning.
Look too close, and there it goes,
Hiding deeper in the folds.
The edge retreats; I’ll never know
What slid away inside my bones.
But it fuels.
The night drapes, the storm breaks, the cold takes;
And it fuels.
Grueling, loathing, something hoping,
Something you want to go to at the end of every day.
And you where my home.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Home isn’t something on the path.
It’s something you feel, someone you see.
Twisting trees upon the breeze; memories of life
And leaves. A splash of wine that sets you free,
A ghost of heaven and its pleas.
Home is an edge that bleeds,
Gloating. It changes, grows, something homely,
Something foaming.
Something clawing for the morning.
Look too close, and there it goes,
Hiding deeper in the folds.
The edge retreats; I’ll never know
What slid away inside my bones.
But it fuels.
The night drapes, the storm breaks, the cold takes;
And it fuels.
Grueling, loathing, something hoping,
Something you want to go to at the end of every day.
And you where my home.
