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HOME

Written By
David Steven Simon
Thehollywoodragepage.blogspot.com

I live in the ghost house of home
a prayer silent, 
floating citadel of walls which
hold me close 
like the Swan Lake ballerina arms of my invisible mom, 
who is now a ghost as well.

The difference, is she does not know her present condition.  
She thinks 
it is still her job to clean my face with a freshly licked Kleenex
and cook
like the first mate of a slave’s ship
who is expected to work until
the bone shows through.

Despite all the wisdom which has been carved 
like initials
into the tree,
which in the ancient times of us,
when we were still pink bud peaches
and could not calculate the true distance of tomorrow,
whispered secrets 
which were as big as the moon
whose pendulum swing
waited 
like the hawk-eyed dog who
watched the door
always on the look out
for the stunning final act emergence of you,
the one she loved the most.

And although the tree still stands
Somewhere deep in the forest
Where fairy tales are protected
By the government of the heart, 
I find that the older that I become
the younger I feel 
as if the final instruction hand delivered by the cosmos has officially informed me
that in the end, utter foolishness
and not knowing any better
beats knowing.

Because in the end what does knowing do 
other than make us ache for the ship of everything 

that has been lost to sea.

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