Honey-Dripped Dreams

The sky is a dark grey.

I walk up to a house, old and

neglected, yet still standing.

The wind is a silent drone against the echo of my footsteps.

I enter the old house.

I am from home.

I (am from) can see within through thedulled

(I am from) seyeghtufsleep the paths of the past.

(I am from) The vision colored with the gold

(I am from) dustufyouth, I see the faces of

(I am from) those whom I loved—

(I am from) those whom I knew.

(I am) From the farthest reaches ufmeye mind

I (am from) go—

(I am from) a time when ollwusgold and honey-dripped with

(I am from) warmth ofa youthful heart.

(I am from) I hate the place, with

(I am from) searing thorns and biting storms and tempestuous heat.

(I am from) But I love the place, with

(I am from) a blind love only found ina child’s heart.

(I) Am (from) I not a fool to do so? I see

(I am from) the beautiful faces of meyefriends, or

(I am from) rather my friends—family—for those are

(I am from) oneandthee other; they are the same.

(I am from) There I found the luvofmy life, and

(I am from) There I played her olltheday long, and

(I am from) She, I said, with me forever

(I am from), keeping me joy, giving me safe, like in a private closet where

(I am from) no one’s taste mattersbut mine.

(I am from) Not to say I hada crush on Holst, but he opened

(I am from) my heart to meyelove with her

(I am from) heavenly sounds that caress and reverberate through

(I am from) my soul. His first sweet was my first time

(I am from) to feel such ethereal love.

(I am from) Andaseyesitandhe...

The sky is a dark grey.

I walk up to a house, old and

neglected, yet still standing

like a modest monument to the past—

utterly forgotten, yet still standing,

pointing ever-faithfully to memories,

though no one sees it.

Like a crumbling pinnacle of a long-fallen city,

it watches over the past,

guarding its deserted  streets and houses from    the threat of            

I trod through the hallways,

feeling my hand across the decrepit walls

as the wind makes the old house groan—

no other sounds but my solitary footsteps

echo into the air, thick with dust.

I walk past the rooms with longing

and content, out towards the open air, a mighty wind at my face,

my back to the old house,

for I have left this place for the cold-grey North.

(I am not from) Here I am now, and

(I am not from) I say, ‘,I am from Here,’ but

I am not from Here.

(I am not from) And though here

I am (not from) happy, I still, at times,

(I am not from) long fourthe land where

(I am from) I call home-

(I am from) a place wearI visit in the breeze-blown sleep.

(I am from) In honey-dripped dreams I remember.

(I am home)