For them
Homes are not soft cushions
Enid blytons
words that sound like
all heavens chiming in unison,
Or harbours for stranded ships.

For they had
Made homes on beaches
Of insanity,
Raising citadels
from ravenous quicksand.
For them,
Home is all that
Is left of a burning pyre
Ashes that cannot
Light a damp room,
And make sleeping at night
A degree colder.
Not words but voices
Shot like cannon balls!
For them home
has eerie silences
a child should not hear.
For them
Home is a word
That has become
like the Enid Blytons
they never read.
Home is the story
they conjured
out of pictures in their comics
when no one told them
the real ones.
Home is an attempt
to steal figments of reality
to feed their hungry
minds and stomachs.
Home , not a birthday surprise
But the patience of a cat
Waiting for a thunderstorm
to crush the insides
of a serenity
That beguoled them.
But home , h-o-m-e!
They occasionally stood
in front of mirrors
to twist their tongues in different ways
And check if ‘home’
Could sound like something else,
Something new?

Home reminds them
Of the stones they put in their pockets,
The balloons they stole,
The lies they told,
The people they chased
The people they became
The times they woke up
thinking maybe something
had changed,
the wall paint, the clock, the voices,
but always finding their lives
caught up in a mirror hall;
The times they forgot their address
To lead them back
to where they were born
The times when people
left on drunken nights
tired and bored of listening to
for some people
homes are not soft cushions
Enid blytons
words that sound like
all heavens chiming in unison
Or harbors for stranded ships.


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