Filled with meaning is
Harder on the heart than the brain.
The heart, melancholy
Searches the void;
Looking forward to the end of the war within.
Living off a suitcase
I trot around England
Assuming different shapes, forms, sizes and colours.
In each house, there is a different memory.
In each space, a different story-
The colour of the curtains, the sound of the sea,
The emptiness of a garden, the taste of a chocolate cake.
And underneath, a seathing rageful frustration.
What next? Where next do I look for meaning?
In what do I find my home? And where then, should I rest?
I am delaying going home
Because I want to ensure it isn't here.
Hoping that
Here, it only resides
Here, it only resides
In the eyes of the people I love.
In each house am I offered
Towels of different colours.
Sometimes it is the-colour-of-the-sky-that-day-blue, sometimes lavender, sometimes light green
And in other spaces, the colour of my skin.
Inturn, I reject
The warmth, the tenderness, the cold, the formality
With the same icy smile and warm-hearted non-conviction
That I have managed to conjure within me.
Pure unruffled core. Pheonix that redefines with fire.
Nothing seems to hold a candle to the inferno.
Nothing seems to match the brilliance of the art in the sky.
With what colour then, shall I paint my core?
In which place, then, shall I next have the temperament to rest?
