a small house in Sutton sleeps apart from soft snores and the silent smoke of a cigarette
the silhouette of the manchild who holds it shares his view with the moon and the stars:
as i stand in the warm shadow of the house I grew up in,
we gaze at the indefinite outline of trees I played under,
with joyous dirt on my palms.

the silence of night is that of a funeral,
the lights of an empty sky, my angels,
who take my hands bittered by tar,
and will lead me through the gates, to life
I am scared but I am confident,
Because I am going nowhere,
But at least that means,
I know where I’m going


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