All the milk I spilt and never cried over
Haunts my curdled thoughts of manhood.
Whose hand shall I hold to stop the aching
Of loneliness in a sea of smiling souls.
I’ve been roaming the face of this earth with a
Splinter in my gut,
Second guessing every pure thought I ever conjured.
The ache in my heaving chest oscillates between mind and heart.
Does the bellow of childhood muffled rage quieten
As we inflate into adulthood?
I can’t tell.
I’m too busy pouring my tears back into my eyes to feign
Wellness in a world that worships perfection.
I’m too busy building hopes on stolen land.
Because, what is home?
Is it a house of brick, mortar, wood, grass and glass?
Is it a memory of taste or muscle?
Could it be an emotion cradled by the forgivingness of nostalgia?
Perhaps it’s the very air I breathe?
The feeble, timid, vigorously thudding heart keeps whispering that home is in fact…
Everywhere, Nowhere, Elsewhere and Wherever the heart finds it.
Written by Frank Malaba
2 thoughts on “40”
One of your best Frank. Profound.
Thank you so much, Simon.