A sheltered home with a closed door,
I often
think of distant faded shore
And gaze at
them from a screen
Dream of
stories from pages within.
Where do you
send the man with no home?
When everywhere
is nowhere to roam?
Why doth one
never belong?
Whose verses
mould a swansong?
For as my
walled mind cries in loss
Her ship
demands sight of an albatross!
By design or
by fate I shall not guide
Inertia
takes me in its unmoving stride.
Maybe in the
question doth the answer lie?
Some people
belong at all places under open sky
And home is rendered
just a thought,
In the end
an idea too large to be sought.
For in the
streets of Manchester I may walk
Or to myself,
infront of a decadent window, talk.
My step is singular
and my own wherever I take,
These walls
will never my spirit break.
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