Ask Me Not Of Home.

Ask me not of home,
I know not where it is now,
The old paths are forgotten
And I shan’t tell you how,
Yet if by some miracle,
You find my old life’s door,
Bare your heart by the threshold,
Don’t dirty the polished floor.

Ask me not of home,
Of my children by the lake,
My wife’s face lay forgotten,
Like moon upon daybreak,
And I wonder if my mother,
Will be standing, still,
By the wicket gate of my garden,
Eyes along the path uphill,
Where by a wayside stone,
A wrinkled frame of man,
Of my father shall be awaiting,
As long as he thither can.

Ask me not of home,
Of my sheep and unploughed farm,
I have slept in upturned graves,
The living has lost its charm,
And oft at night I whimper,
By the ebbing fire I weep,
Another sky lay open,
I am too afraid to sleep.

So, ask me not of home,
Of its red bricks and wooden stair,
Ask me why I am not home,
Braiding my daughter’s hair,
Ask me how I faltered,
Ask me how I failed,
When was my heart was anchored home,
Ask me why I sailed.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

2 thoughts on “Ask Me Not Of Home.”

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