first draft – road home 

road home

empty house, no-one’s calling
dreams are maps; I am sleepless,
drowning at the end of the world 
choking on strangers’ needs

days inside the machine,
nights in a foreign bed,
looking for the road home

seasons pass, rain grows cold,
bricks and stone are prison, 
the moon cannot catch me,
my fear poisons the black 

days inside the machine,
nights in a foreign bed;
looking for the road home 

your phone rang out in silence,
the door’s open, window’s wide,
demons followed me devoted,
made my hope their home,

heart stopped then, I am falling,
damp house has rotted my heart,
plant no seeds; I am hopeless
cannot find my strength

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