Sitting idle, alone,
Remembering a time when
This home felt right
To return to again.

There are ghosts which occupy
Every inch of each room;
They whisper words of history
Spoken too late, too soon.

It is hard to feel present
In a place swollen with the past
Regurgitating memories,
Repeating them, so they last.

Home is where time
Deviates from a line
And folds onto itself
Usurping what is mine.

We fall into the shoes
Of those above us
By walking in circles
And speaking in dust.

Home is a circle,
Home is a tide;
To say you won’t follow
Is not resistance, but a lie.


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