I imagine my happy place,
I picture it in vignette taste.
Like looking through colored glass,
There's a sepia quality to its grasp.
Like wading through a dream,
There's a vagueness to its every gleam.
Everything's the same yet different here,
A constant familiarity hangs in the air.
The picture varies from time to time...
Always it would be a house of some kind;
The edges forever unrefined,
Be it a cabin, a mansion, a farmhouse or two or three
Every ***** nook and cranny this mind could carry
Always it would be somewhere remote;
By the sea, the countryside, by a cliff, or under trees,
Sometimes in an open clearing of endless green grass swaying in the breeze.
... Home.
Though every version varies,
One thing's for certain in this house of made-up stories.
Always, always, and always a thousand times more,
You'd be there standing by the door.
Now I never questioned this part somehow
Cause here's the truth of the matter in tow:
This place could be a garbage dump for all I care
But I'd still call it heaven so long as you're there.
And I find that it's the only thing that matters;
To have your figure carved into this place's corners
I'd gladly let this place take your shape
The smell of warm bread and books here you shall drape.
This landscape is treacherous and ever-changing.
But I know as long you're there in my dreaming,
These childish mock-ups of reality
Shall remain my favorite moments of clarity.
It is my piece of heaven on earth,
My secret happy place while I'm on this dirt.
Heaven don't have a name
But God forbid I find it fitting
That if it did, of course
It would be yours.
