There shall be no wisp of thin air
between the end and the beginning.
Nor shall there be any acrimonious good-byes.
No sober hands can hold me back,
nor can the wretched fingers
extend their clasp.
Plight is home for the nearsighted.
Delight is home for the enlightened.
I am home for the merry and gay.
But not for you.
You, like them all, shall pass.
The naked leprechauns know shame nor guilt.
Or the thousand things that people built.
Hustling in the forlorn streets,
Lusting for the forbidden fruit.
They wander in my twilight gardens,
like leaves of unknown, taboo thoughts.
I turn. They turn their eyes on me.
Not eyes. In lust, they built a sinking sea.
They stare, until my soul is bared.
But then, their eyes just move on fast.
I now know what the travelers said.
Home is where the heart once stayed.
Mine never did, didn't even pause.
They tried their best, but
They all, shall pass.
Travelling is sometimes the best example of a perfect 'no strings attached' relationship.