During the hours between 12 and 3
Usually contain an untitled me
For who I am
I cease to be
During the hours between 12 and 3

But during the hours of 4 and 8
The world begins to take a shape
But not me
For I'm still free
During the hours of 4 and 8

"I want to go home,"
                                                                   she thinks
                                                                   while lying in her bed.
She moves through life,
                                                                   a marionette,
never actually living
anywhere outside her head.
Her mind is fully consumed
by dreams of a true home
          this
              mythological
                               place
which she's heard of
but has yet to know.
A quarter century of life
             crawls by
          before she notices.
The search for her home
         falls
               by
                  the
                    wayside,
                                                                   pushed aside.
In its place, the struggle for
mere survival.
But every night,
lying alone in her bed
as she sleepily sighs
it crosses her mind,
                                                                   "I want to go home."
Where is this "home" place
                                                                   she wonders?
Houses are not homes,
she knows this too **** well.
A thunderstorm gathers
within her soul
                                                                   until
finally, she crashes.
                                                                   "I can't take this hell."
A symbolic breakaway and
          a
           home
                    is
                     found
           suddenly,
                  quickly,
without so much as a warning sound.
It is not realized within any dwelling,
but a much simpler place:
            the fit beneath a chin,
            arms she's encircled within.
                                                                   "Home."
It takes on a higher meaning,
a more profound definition.
And there is simply
               no way, no way
she could have known,
had any premonition of the
                                                                   home
that would so easily grow
between their two souls
and make her, for once,
                                                                   at last,
                                                                   feel whole.
            "Sir, I feel at home with you,"
                        she sighs.
            "You are," he replies.
And she knows
                                                                   it's true.

you talk
like lions roar
and shrug
like there's nothing
in the earth below
your heavy lisp
rings through the room
even as aproned women
scrape their brooms
you talk of recovery
you talk of gain
you talk like
you have never been pained
you talk of casinos
the tring of money
you talk of wealth
like it were milk and honey
you talk the talk
and then talk the walk
we make through the woods
you talk again
this time of stolen goods
we cross the river
you talk
we feel the night shiver
you talk
we dream of sleep
you talk
we avoid counting sheep
you talk

you talk
until we see
the sun come up
it is a crisp morning
ready to fill the cup
i wait to hear
from a world
i don't live in
but i am met
with a silence
that is
most enlivening
and that is
when i see you
for the first time
for what you are
your eyes
grey much dull
hiding the
ancient sadness
of giving up