A place to sort through the literary mess in my head. "Poetry is what gets lost in translation" - Robert Frost

Sunday, April 06, 2008

"Home"


This, this was my home,
Now a tidy bed, an empty dresser
Walls devoid of the memories that made them mine

Home is a highway through nowhere
A crowded bus seat, a city that's not mine,
A bed hundreds have slept in before me.

My existence fits snugly in a suitcase.
I am ready to leave at a moment's notice;

Settling is for those who have somewhere to settle.

Once again
I'm on the road
Making my way home -
If only I knew where that was.