I’m looking for my home, have you seen it?
It has four walls, but the roof is gone.
The truth is defined: by what lies behind the frontlines.
Once the doors and the windows implode from the inside.
The exterior is slightly damaged,
Or battered like war torn.
But, when the warmth pours outward.
What’s sunk will sail with the tailwinds.
I’m hell bent on finding the passion I once had here.
Cause, each day I’m slipping.
Grip and footing.
Tripped, on ashen heels.
Reaching for reasons to feel, what’s been lost here.
Lost in the brook without a clue what to look for
Upon a rock of all this hatred, I sit on.
If dangers what you’re looking for, you found it here.
You hear the wind howl, like a rabid hound.
See: these plate-like platters, get thrown
from the stove top like a frisbee:
As they shatter against the kitchen counters.
A million shards dart off the baseboard,
Towards the floorboards.
That’s a project-tile round.
If home is what you’re looking for:
You won’t find it here.
No: You won’t find it.