how sick the mirrors are    of visiting our dumb faces
how weary the door is    of being bolted for our precious privacy
how dreary are our voices  to the walls
          as they are trounced  by our mad surly language ?
are the beds exhausted absorbing our stains ?
are the chairs knackered enduring our strain ?

how burdened are the tables by our taxes ?
how taxed are the windows projecting in ?
is the plumbing fatigued
          or the electric stressed ?
how geared up and fearful are the stairs
           as we begin our ascent ?
how bent out of shape is the ovens mood
           to bloat with heat and then cook our food ?

the engines of our house are in order
though  they must consider their efforts wasted
                     maintaining our bewildering lifestyle

I was just an ember in the wind,
Until your turned your heart into my hearth,
You coaxed the flames with kindling,
Turned one spark into a blaze,
And when the cold was creeping in
You kept the chill away,
I was just an ember in the wind,
Until you let me in.

When I say "I love you"
what I meant was,
I have never felt so at home
anywhere
or with anyone.
My mind,
my soul,
my heart,
has never felt such peace.

As the ephemeral night passes on,
flourishing beneath the moon's luminescence,
the will to survive in this constant place
referred to as 'home',
goes along with it.

Its deep, and its dark,
Its cold but warm
It’ll make you shiver, but its also the only peace you know,
Keep going, deeper and deeper,
Further and further ,
Far from all other civilisation,
Keep me safe,
Keep me warm,
And keep me far,
The deep saphire ocean,
Take me with you
Wherever you go i will follow
You are where i feel safe
My haven
The place i feel most comfortable
I could be swimming
I could be drowning
But there is nothing that can stop me,
From calling you,
My home.

Cedar wood house
aching with arthritis
still standing atop a hill,
at me, she blew a kiss,
dreaming I could feel,
and as made my way
down the horizon
where the flowering
dogwood-covered
peaks rose
to this valley,
where whiskey flows,
old mountain ranges
have always been
November’s ghost.

I’m on this road
thinking it will lead me home,
but all along,
I was wrong,
my home lives with me
in my bones.
Faces I knew by heart,
in time faded until forever gone,
I’m left here singing their song
with their names etched
on winter stones.

This road has grown weary
leading me to golden places
that weren’t even there;
all the while it was I
chasing castles in the air,
and I was foolish enough
to care about running after
a mirage anywhere,
all along,
by my side, the happiness
that I dared myself to find,
has always been with her.

Every day when I walk I look up to the sky
And I wonder, where are they going tonight?
Carried on the contrails of planes passing by,
I dream of where I might go on that flight.
I ask, how did I wind up in this peculiar land?
My passport home, where I feel I’m a stranger
Where proverbial ground moves right where I stand,
I can’t shake this feeling of impending danger.
I look to the contrails, and I just want to fly,
But, wherever they go, I just won’t belong,
Then ... another contrail catches my eye,
And into my daydreams again I am drawn
I wonder if there’s ever a place I’ll call home
Nowhere, or anywhere the contrails might go.