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.

The light of Nirvana manifest at the first glint of creativity , the glow in the writers heart praised at the Gates of Heaven , their records etched in pink marble within the Heavenly Foyer for all eternity .
The journal of the ancients , scribed with fire , cast in bronze tablet , adored by Angelic host ..
Works of praise engraved from the template of the Most High , eyes of fire in the darkest of night ..
Carmine in nomine ipsius gloriari !

Why not the sorrow
Instead of hopeful constellations
From mythical legends,
Instead of the lost Gardens of Babylon,
Beauteous notions
Of the heart's grandiosity?
If everyday is a struggle,
If each day we try to fill
The void we are born with,
If pain is all too real;
We are born into the struggled,
To be friends to enemies
To make ourselves whole
While trying to find the existential
Moment of truth in ourselves,
As we gulp down joy
And sweat about under the sun.
The sorrowing cannot be claimed,
Though its air chokes you,
Though it eats your luster,
There is the other that one rarely
Finds, joy in the light.
Sorrow is too frequently a visitor.

A war memorial stands
Keeping guard at the end
Of an ancient High Street
Alone on a roundabout

From this historic spine
Of Flooring Centre and Bugdens
Run ribs of semis
With their suburban wives

I watch as my feet
Stamp down cracked pavements
Teenage schoolgirls
Giggle at a phone

At the village hall noticeboard
I read Parish Council minutes
Wondering at the secrets
Of the good who serve

Whilst against it all
The background hum
Of M3 traffic
Racing towards death.

Don't do that and don't do this,
The things we're told from birth to death,
But all this life is **** and ****,
And charges you for every breath,

What we drink and what we eat,
What we write and what we make,
Where we go and who we meet,
What we give and what we take,

What we are and what we do,
Unless we choose the pills or knife,
The only choice left we can make,
Is when we choose to end this life.

You only see the signs when you're looking for them