Not home,
it’s not home.
My home doesn’t exist but
even what
little part does
is not the
part I am in.
This is not it,
the arena is not
mine nor is this
armour.
Currently
as it is,
I’m less a home
and owed one
I think but
not sure from whom.
This scene
is seen
from a
dream that
I refuse to stop
having.
I’ve never felt
more at
home
then looking
through that
screen.
My own doors are
keyless
and keys are
less that I
would beg for.
They are
enshrined in
ivy and
stone
and surrounded by
riddle and I
don’t know
the answer.
Less
a home and
more a house.
Dismissed at
first viewing,
not enough charm,
too much work.
Damp.
I suppose I
should rebuild
and
make
my own.
I wish
I belonged
where I’ve been
left.
On Tuesdays 