home

I live where words fail to bring understanding

where language is an accessory not a necessity

I reside in a hut, washed up on the shores of time

sitting there, on the edge

home made of bones.

I put my feet up on stools made of the fears that haunt you

I make my bed at the witches hedge,

cackling with a warmth that started the earths first fires

it can be hard, never being seen

no-one ever comprehending.

it can be deeply isolating.

and while I am separated from the crowd and made stranger with every current of initiation

I am home.