ties that bind us free.

this is always home.

the clouds have sunk beneath me,
beneath these feet that have travelled
along the most dangerous paths
and ran many miles away from the weight they carry;
these feet that have slipped and fallen.

now i am stood, catching my breath,
solitary but never alone.

the skies have stretched beyond my horizons,
and falling down to our world
where everything has an end
are raindrops that hold life that shine
effervescently, so everlasting,
they become the tears that knead their way
from my eyes, into the palm of my shaking hand,
tired from trying, but yearning for more.

this is home, the haven that no disaster can shake,
where i look into the knowing eyes
and remember,
where all was safe.
where all is safe.

sometimes, it is the moments 
often misunderstood at surface level
that is most pure and increasingly

though we all stray at points in our lives,
i’d never forgotten this home,
which we left to journey unsheltered,
to experience the world and all its
pains and beauty, to love
to love, to love.

we now know,
as the years grow into our eyes, 
our bones and our calm,
that no matter where we land when we
soar forward,
there is always a key under the doormat
that fits the door that keeps
the home we built together,
for us to let ourselves in again.

this is home.
within ourselves,
is where we find immortal love.


these veins once ran dry
and felt the pressure of the world
pushing into spaces too small to bear it.

there are uncertainties in the way
the air smells now
like i have stepped into a
new layer of existence
from the void i had lived.

everything feels blunt within
but sharp like daggers
when everyone looks in.

have you had your daily notion
of living with your eyes sold and used
when all you see are lines 
that never bend
no matter how you try to refract
or reflect?

this weight, it is carried endlessly
like the pull of a tide
expanding and colliding to the shores
that will never hold home to the sea.

i am the fray of loose material
aged with the stretch of wear
the kind that are hastily ripped out
or singed to the edges
unwanted for the part it used to play
in holding something once whole 

these eyelids are heavy
but my mind can’t rest with
the tendencies of being asleep
when the world is awake and 
fervently on fire
the ashes get caught in the wind
like grey snow, falling upon all that was built
and cast out to fall old.

these eyes will never tire
though they feel they have seen it all
and these wounds will grow new skin
and learn with each layer
to abandon hurt

and live again.