A fundamentalist turned freedom chaser with an obnoxiously stubborn faith.


I am going home, you said,
I relish every word you left, bereft
Of every one you didn’t yet
And every one I didn’t coax out of you when I could.
Those are the ones that might be wood.

But it’s only straw instead.

Home is it? and you insist,
But when your heart stopped cold I missed
The home at the part where your last breathe kissed
This end of eternal sowing, sighed
Into the harvest of your life

There is not room for this.

Where is home without you here
It may sounds trite, but feels too clear
To rise above cliches and fear
That what fell down in shards and splinters
Could be rebuilt for future winters

Foundations never looked so sheer.

No home for me except for grief
I’ll never hang another wreath
And that may be much for me
But I will jump and drill until
I find the bottom of this hell.

To prove you wrong will bring relief.

But home is stubborn like you are
And wiggles into careless arms
My protests don’t go very far
And soon I’m with you, not beside
A holy truth, a devil’s lie,

Or is my mind just bending to my heart?

You can be a fool at home, I say
I pray that you can see my great charade
And join me for a moment’s play?
As if there were some way to know
That this is you and not some show.

I guess I hope I’ll know someday.

For now I won’t refuse to own
What’s offered from inside my bones
That joins what is my not-alone
And brings a peace I want to capture
To fill in all the ceiling fractures

But houses never make a home.

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