Nothing pleases the pundits more
than seeing blood in the streets.
Where their wolf howls are drowned
by our crescendo of bleats,
In the mad scramble for the adulation of -
click$

Home’s not made from brick or mortar.
It’s not some place I hang my coat.
It’s that feeling I get when you walk in the door,
That makes the words catch in my throat.

It’s not some random town on forms,
Or where I spent warm summer nights,
It’s the sound of your quiet, peaceful snore
I can only hear when you’re by my side.

Home’s not some happy memory,
Fondly recalled from long ago.
For it’s nostalgia’s gift that lets me see
Home’s not a place to which I go.

It’s you - that calms my frantic mind,
Where I find that centered peace.
You’re the only place I know I’ll find,
The pressures of the world at last -
release.

Quietly watching miniature people
As I wait in the line to pick up mine
Crossing guards standing watch like a steeple
As tiny voices tell tales of their time.

Hands gently engulfed in protective mitts
And smiles of those relieved at weeks end
I muse to myself as I idly sit,
What story awaits me as I turn the bend?

A grand hero’s welcome surely awaits!
As I contemplate my day, so mundane
Wondering when I succumbed to life’s weight
An impostor! Lost in this grown-up’s game.

A deep breath releases my burdened mind
For stories about to regale our ride.

We seek escape,  
Into imagined worlds.
Where darkness contrasts
heroes and villains,  
Like stars against the black sky.
And we find brief respite  
from the serpent’s fangs,
Lazily hidden,
behind a disquieting smirk.
And we can imagine  -
If for just a few fleeting moments -
We needn’t be enemies.

You know who you are
Your ideology has done me harm
It’s as simple as that.
And I will never forget.