HOMESICK

"Well I'm living in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line.

Beauty walks a razor's edge someday I'll make it mine"

  -Bob Dylan: “Shelter from the storm.”

This country, a wild wilderness of waterfalls

And mountains of ice and lush green,
Gives a temporary home, these walls
And this breathtaking view, only seen
Here. Prison without bars. Here. In between.

Running from place to town, to where?

From country, from hospital, walking a line,
Between here, nowhere, no one there.
Gone, gone. They say: "you'll be fine".
Little do they know, he said: "you're mine".

His, and running from those lands.

And theirs, am theirs, no one, possession.
Commodity, disposable in their hands.
Razors edge, cutting deep, obsession.
Tree, branches, rope, fire, oblivion.

This country, temporary home, so far.

So homesick, so lost, will cross that line
And return, and face them all, a war
Raging within. The little ones are fine.
They will help. Revenge is mine.

© Darren White