This reality feels like sawdust,
Of a home I shaped,
In my dreams.
The mild fragrance of old flowers,
Cruising over my sentience,
Since long, long, long,
Thin like lacquer,
Shinning with cynical dirt, and
Acoustic accusations of a
Remembered silence, passed down the ages;
Of divided demands.
Faces that once,
Helped me sleep,
Why do they now, keep me awake?
How the stories that kept me warm,
Now leave me cold,
On this new day?
Far too far,
This road has leapt,
Away from the walls I memorized well,
And now no window hails my call,
The city has sailed,
Is all they say.