What is Home, but an abstract sense,
Hovering like the whiff of cinnamon.
What is Home, but the ruddy anchor,
Etched in one stagnant era of time.
What is Home, but the portrait of love,
As the faces of my blood ease in to the darkness.
What is Home, but bed warmed for you
Laid out, awaiting the return of the local king,
What is Home, but memories,
Of the long lost rascal you once were.
What is Home, but the prayers and love
Bundled in the aging lips of the Queen.
As I embrace Life, Head First.
It turns and churns.
As I leave the land,
Of which I once was lord,
I reach back.
And grab the out stretched arms.
And as days wane and wax
And as ripe apples decay
As an orange crumbles in its sweetness
As dust lays down for a heavy slumber
The years grow
Feeding on life, its only fodder
For you who grabs his bags
And steps beyond the threshold,
Home is but a word
Home is but a catalyst
A bow, from whence you spring forth.
Once gone, invisible again to its quiver.
