A fallen
angel spat out from the sky
I hit the edge of home as a paper airplane
thrown too hard,
And pointing
nose and wings towards the earth, I spun softly downwards
Into the
dullness of everyday sleep. In jet-lagged trance, I amble dizzily
With no
grip on my life and no grip on the time – the clocks seem to discard
Hours of my
life without regret while I sit and stare into space.
Home is the
only word that comes to mind and yet I wait for something more.
Home has
never been enough for me, the greedy one, the forever unsatisfied.
I stretch
out hands towards the ripe fruits, towards the river which laps the shore
And as
Tantalus’ dream they dissolve when brushed by eager fingers
I tied my hands
behind my back and chained my bare feet to the ground.
This is
home. This is where I stay, this is where I am and who I am and who I should
be.
But Hell is
only desire, and hope for the fulfillment of something unsaid – and I am home.
Home is
everything, I have everything and still I ask for more and cast away what I
have
To show empty
hands to those looking my way – I am always hungry for more.
Trapped
under the transparent dome of my wanting,
Knowing
fully well there is no response from outside, no Echo to follow my Narcissism,
Having been
thrown back from a fairytale into the bleakness of my own city, calling
For the
storm, and lying down to be trampled upon by the pouring rain, I yearn
For a few
happy days – If I cannot hush this heart beating as loud as the tropical
thunder,
Then it is
asking for the wolves to tear it apart.
