HOME | DD

Description
This home stretches for eons across the sky,
suburbia sprawl plunging through and over the trees.
This town fits me; and how I fit her so.
She fits me like a warm embrace across my heart
And I fit her like the warm injection of a—

                        Stop.
                        We are moving too quickly.
                        When two expanses collide,
                        they prepare for war.

            If a knight clad in yellow, billowing steam
            plunged forth and swept you away,
            sheer anguish would drown out the remnants.

                                    But still, not all of it.
                                    There are rations to me.
                                    I am but a cornerstone
                                    of so many establishments.

Would it apt of me to pour my all into this place,
to construct all manner of wonders in your name,
if this were but another stop in an endless pilgrimage?
What more would it serve as a trifled diversion,
if it were all to turn to relics before my very eyes?

            Dreaming of Mecca.
            A love so strong,
            but across so much space.

                                    So much space, it seems; it would be
                                    irrelevant to even dare to attempt
                                    to span the distance. To cross the natural
                                    line that cuts us from one another.

                        My space.                        My home.
                        Your space.                     My home.
                                                   Then how do I reconcile this disjuncture?

            Is there a limit to places I may inhabit
                        before the dogs of war wrestle it all away?
            Is there an invisible boundary to stretch
                        so it may contort to the form of my presence?

                        Are there only a finite number of opportunites
                                  until I stop giving birth to love?

                                                            Perhaps not, I'd wager.
                                                            But eventually, we must all consider
                                                            where we have buried our treasure boxes.

            From a shattered city with still beating core
            to a shimmering city and its dead entrails
                        there is a place between,
                        a place for us all.

                                    And then, we consider.
                                    The people that gave us water
                                    in the centre of the desert.

                        And the warmth that illuminates the body
                        like the sun rising upon innumerable pillars;
                        anthropomorphic, incomparable but all too
                        perfect.
                                     that moment, either beginning or end—

            A simple wooden signpost,
            and the ancestors will know
            that we have truly come home.

Description
This home stretches for eons across the sky,
suburbia sprawl plunging through and over the trees.
This town fits me; and how I fit her so.
She fits me like a warm embrace across my heart
And I fit her like the warm injection of a—

                        Stop.
                        We are moving too quickly.
                        When two expanses collide,
                        they prepare for war.

            If a knight clad in yellow, billowing steam
            plunged forth and swept you away,
            sheer anguish would drown out the remnants.

                                    But still, not all of it.
                                    There are rations to me.
                                    I am but a cornerstone
                                    of so many establishments.

Would it apt of me to pour my all into this place,
to construct all manner of wonders in your name,
if this were but another stop in an endless pilgrimage?
What more would it serve as a trifled diversion,
if it were all to turn to relics before my very eyes?

            Dreaming of Mecca.
            A love so strong,
            but across so much space.

                                    So much space, it seems; it would be
                                    irrelevant to even dare to attempt
                                    to span the distance. To cross the natural
                                    line that cuts us from one another.

                        My space.                        My home.
                        Your space.                     My home.
                                                   Then how do I reconcile this disjuncture?

            Is there a limit to places I may inhabit
                        before the dogs of war wrestle it all away?
            Is there an invisible boundary to stretch
                        so it may contort to the form of my presence?

                        Are there only a finite number of opportunites
                                  until I stop giving birth to love?

                                                            Perhaps not, I'd wager.
                                                            But eventually, we must all consider
                                                            where we have buried our treasure boxes.

            From a shattered city with still beating core
            to a shimmering city and its dead entrails
                        there is a place between,
                        a place for us all.

                                    And then, we consider.
                                    The people that gave us water
                                    in the centre of the desert.

                        And the warmth that illuminates the body
                        like the sun rising upon innumerable pillars;
                        anthropomorphic, incomparable but all too
                        perfect.
                                     that moment, either beginning or end—

            A simple wooden signpost,
            and the ancestors will know
            that we have truly come home.