At two in the morning,

the chest lets you know that you’ve had enough

and that all that you accomplished so far,

the squiggles of indecisive word play foreplay,

the slight chuckle of flirtation with a new sexy

phrase dressed in glimmering ball gown

and the jealous, seething, rage of an old favourite

as it gets dropped in its favour

for a single novel line,

all that you written and fought for in the darkness

means nothing,

not a damn thing as all turns grey before your eyes

and the feeling of rust and decay sets in.

 

I need to see my home, wherever that may be,

too many over the years but age, middle age at best,

I fear Old Age in truth, no longer youthful

tremor and earthquake indulgence, I need to feel the

quiet of a single recalled street at dawn, the shouts

of memory drunk as last orders commanded

as the sigh of past lenience towards my heart

in the town I neglected for too long

and which is a home in which I flourished

and became the man I am today;

aching of heart, my bones in pain,

excruciating agony

but I am alive to believe I want to see

that place in all its glory once more,

I want, even for a night

to go home.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.