Where Home Really Is

It sucks not knowing where home really is

The explosions in the sky do not mirror the flares in my mind
Nor troubles that droop my shoulders and lid my eyes
I want that hopeful song I hear in my last days as a child

I close my eyes as, I lie upon the grass
Cushioned in muted thoughts, of calm
That calm before the storm
It's quiet,
And quieter still
And stiller than the quietest air

It's quiet still.

And then I have to go home.
Hence my soul is quiet, dead as the air
Hence my heart beats, in sounds that pierce
And rule the empty air
Hence my mind hushed itself
Hence my feet pound the floor; punctuations
That go nowhere

I hate being where nobody likes my pretty songs.

I scream, I'm in bloom
I'm in bloom. Who's loss is it
When I'm absent.
And where I'm going,
I'll bring with me all my pretty songs