Walls surround me; people tell me, even ask me 
where I’ve been. I can’t find the answers, or 
the reason from within. If home is the place 
where you lay your head, I’ve got no room left 
for what goes on when the walls are closing in.

No longer seeking safety or salvation, but simply 
common ground. There were never second chances the 
first time around. It’s been years since I have come home, 
though I’m not without my blame, I’m not without
my judgment and not without my shame.

No reminders. No residue.
No solutions, nor the pain.

More a feeling than a destination, home is not 
about geography. Even less the physical location. 
The whisper of home gets hard to understand, 
even mundane decisions become more difficult
when you take life in your own hands.

Driving forward, moving slowly, the place between 
here and this. Listen to music you chose, the next 
track on the disc. Melancholy melody, even lyrically 
it stokes a chord. We all remember taking chances, 
but too often forget about the risk.

Nothing there, nothing lost.
Nothing left. Nothing gained

Of course I’m still dreaming of home, it helps me 
pass the time. Past mistakes and memories,
I own them; they are all mine. My mind often loaded
with gentle thoughts of you, yet it still provides
no direction of where I’m going to.

© 2017 j.g. lewis