Home sounds like fog
like street lights burning halos through the dark
like the weight of smiling constellations
like make believe rebels and ruffians
disturbing the peace with no witnesses
by daring to allow their footsteps
in such a holy silence.
Home sounds like freedom–
not the type with flags and anthems
but the kind that comes when you are young and naive
enough to believe you own the world
or anything, for that matter.
This night is yours. This night
is a legacy. This night
I can’t help but notice people aren’t clicking the links to the poems I’m recommending this month. That’s a shame. Some of my favorite poems have found there way into these daily recommendations. They’re my way of promising that even if my own poem is rushed and not worth the effort of reading, something lies at the end to make up for it.