Aboard, abroad

The pin-pricks of memories drawn from the well of nostalgia.

Knowing we have no home, we locate to the house of pain. But joy is in the details.

Sometimes the heart is a destitute thing, rooms upon empty abandoned rooms.

This bed, a mast of dreams, carry me home.

We have tasted oblivion, but not of the lasting kind.

But dreams are impotent if we have no way to resolve.

They lie shattered and in pieces. And call out in the night.

Until that delectable hour, when you arise once more, with nothing but the sun in your hair.

You give me words to sing.

You give me these things.

And it's enough if I linger among the roses

Among the thorns and the bleeding.

And stay on this path.

I die here.

I come alive here.