hoME

What is it?

A place,  person, state of being

with yourself,

living

in yourself.

Always thought it was a place.

I go back.

I feel

it is not right.

The tree, gone,

like the dreams I had

when I climbed it,

so naive.

Unpacked my car

fourteen times

in six years,

and still no closer.

Thought it was a person,

like the song.

But who?

Not you.

Not in this life,

not in the next.

No warmth

left for me.

Those dreams

as naive

as those

in the trees.

Thought it was inside

this empty cavity,

doubt reverberating

within it.

But it must be here.

So rummage

through ache

for the one thing.

How long to find

mere contentment

in such

an untold space.

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