| Where the Heart Is Somewhere south of mildewed despair (Within the vicinity of mid-western decay) There sits a little superficial hometown Which is visited often (not by me of course) as if a vortex drew us in to a sinkhole of regenerated mistakes. And all the while the residents obliviously Go about their day with a knife and fork Dishing out hash browns on greasy plates While maintaining the charm and guile of the repentant smithy whose hands are aching to help you. Lost in hindsight I won�t be fooled anymore or anyless By the gossamer nightgowns on a former prom queen. I won�t lose myself in teary sentiments of how I gleaned The righteous truths of rightful knowledge determined for me as some pre-ordained ritual blessing as I set out into the world. I will no longer admit the validity of visiting ambassadors When they comment on the beauty of that lost haven. I will relish and rest prayers on the phrase told to me That one can never go back home. But I look at the words I have just laid in these previous lines And see the daggers dripping with the venom of resentment. I realize I need not return, you see friends it is because I carry home with me. And I cry. |