Home might be the slight of the eye,
with it soft white sky,
It might be here nor there
with its gentle stares.
Its agitations of expectation.
Never Ending.
Its gentle pretending-
with passage of time,
It softens.
But home might be the slight of the eye,
a never ending lie,
where one may rest their head,
and quarrel with sins-
what might become,
of the memories-
it frightens me-
with the passage of time,
the ones we think we love-
is it love or is it comfort,
the balance of the known outcome,
it is to be comfortably numb.
ridden of the quest for new.
This might be You-
-If i only knew-