it's midnight
or close to it
the smell of freshly
blown out birthday
candles fills the
air;
i'm on foot, and
walking towards
the horizon;
there's a rhythm
somewhere, i can feel
tapping along,
like the tiny
feet of a dancer
i peer into
the houses
i pass by
they remind
me of ovens,
televisions burning
the precious logs of
our attention spans
some houses
are dark as the
space i breathe in;
doors unlocked,
windows open,
beds made,
rooms occupied,
the rest of their souls
stowed away in
basements and attics
i'm almost home,
there is no porch light
to welcome me, no open
arms to embrace what little
there is left of my wartorn
body
but i'm far from giving
up on planting roots;
this earth is a battleground,
nature is doing what it does best;
beating like a drum,
marching on like a fleet
of soldiers
towards it's only true destination
tonight i've come to learn,
there is no heaven
or hell
for what only comes natural.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
it's midnight
or close to it
the smell of freshly
blown out birthday
candles fills the
air;
i'm on foot, and
walking towards
the horizon;
there's a rhythm
somewhere, i can feel
tapping along,
like the tiny
feet of a dancer
i peer into
the houses
i pass by
they remind
me of ovens,
televisions burning
the precious logs of
our attention spans
some houses
are dark as the
space i breathe in;
doors unlocked,
windows open,
beds made,
rooms occupied,
the rest of their souls
stowed away in
basements and attics
i'm almost home,
there is no porch light
to welcome me, no open
arms to embrace what little
there is left of my wartorn
body
but i'm far from giving
up on planting roots;
this earth is a battleground,
nature is doing what it does best;
beating like a drum,
marching on like a fleet
of soldiers
towards it's only true destination
tonight i've come to learn,
there is no heaven
or hell
for what only comes natural.
