Homecoming

Some day, when you return,
that which you feared,
that which you knew would happen,
will occur and you’ll
remain stranded on the
grimy asphalt of life—
stuttering, muttering, grumbling.

Your home will be empty,
the door battered,
windows barred,
and chairs untenanted.

The house will cry
for glowing souls to warm
its milieu—to make
it sublime…

You’ll stand outside
the gate, banging on
the rusted iron:
hoping, waiting for
some seraphim to alleviate
this incandescent distress.

You’ll stand on the
lawn, having broken through,
the grass will burn
your feet, flowers will
singe your atrophic core.

And you’ll still hope
the house isn’t dead.

You’ll gaze through the
cracked panes, a veneer of
false sanguinity shrouding
your senses and feel
the house wobble on its
foundation.

Your fingers will be glued
to the glass and your
hands turn to
therapeutic liquid.

But you’ll know that
you still have the pack
of currency to console you,
that which you earned in
lands afar, that which lends you
your mendacious confidence.

You’ll push open the
door with your cards and
references;
you’ll enter unharmed.

The vacuum will try
to rip your arthritic soul apart…
You’ll fight, but there
will be no victory, no loss,
just an equal suffering.

And as you stand beside
the scorched, unignited hearth
you’ll find you’re safe:
you are home at last!

You’ll then look into
the translucent mirror
and not be able to recognise
yourself: yet you’ll be
thankful the manifestation
is corporeal.

You’ll know you’ve become
a contradiction.

And then you will finally realize
you’ve lost your pockets too!