Home

Cinnamon evening, from a morning of shallow discomfort, when the rain refused to call, to endorse a suspicious belief that was floating around my anxious head. Love can be a cowardly thing, in the way that it doesn't want to deal with reality. Somewhere in the vampire evening, in the reaches of the past, a friend comes to call. The wolf howls at her moon. And the past is never gone when it lives in the memory of today. It just requires just a little more understanding and a little more patience, to accept that it really is here in this evening of mine. I thought I heard an angel cry. And through the song there was strength, and through the song, there was wondering if the past could re-live itself in a dusty moment of now. Truth is fog, and is pursued in dream. and lies somewhere perhaps, between the dream and the reality. And then there was a blinding sun in February and I felt that I should screen my eyes from the illusion that it suggested. And colours fill the heart, seeking to be reconciled to the places where they belong. And in this wild confusion, the moment is prayerful and its peace attacks diversity and indifference. And home has come to call, and is looking for will. It will not accept passivity and it will not accept ease. It comes to provoke one into the search, into being where home is thought to be.