#Ikopoetrychallenge

Magical Homes

The distance beckons trouble on our brittle souls

Mires of foreign lands & labyrinths of foreign people,

There is no climax to how far we have soared

Away from home, to nest on places where each

Lining of air recreates as a thread of tragic melancholy. 

Strangeness plays a game in the scorch of day,

Desert unfolding of primate lostness, wondering

How to regain this peace, this removal from privacy. 

Except the sky is an ocean unveiling in animations of truth,

And the sun receding after its triumphant glistening 

Becomes a truth contrasting with the unsureties of our life. 

Homes are the tender flowers peaking out from shadow buds. 

Homes are the cinematic grasses shifting against the kissings of

the northern wind. 

Homes are the naked, melanin children plopping the butterness of

Their bodies under pricklings of silver rainfall. 

Homes are the birds chirping their morning call in vibrant continuum, or

The Egrets lending new fingers to children on the streets. 

Homes are rock-breakings swallowing from the indigo ocean and

Spewing them in waterfall aesthetics. 

Homes are shelters smoked out of their rigidity. 

Shelterings characterized by bliss and spectral tenderness,

Shelterings of love and innocence, of skyletting and moongazing.

Homes are everything in its natural state.

The coming-back-home is a symbolic act of embracing the

Things we have lost to the mechanism of the world. The

Things that christen as magic before the eyes of a creating God. 

It is the going out from the troubling cause of a chaotic world, 

And the walking in into ourselves, into the artifacts of our peace.