The Place I call Home
Neon glow of a street lamp reflecting on the damp pavement
Cars driving by late at night breaking the silent restless air
Clicking heels exasperating the emptiness and darkness
Windows lit by dull florescent bulbs hanging aimlessly
This is where I call home and this is where I find my life
dawn hints on the horizon a future date filled with hopes
Only to be regained by the grips of dusk once again
The cold rain falls upon the faces of sinned and sinner
Transgressions meaning little to ridged and stoned lives
The paint peeling off age worn walls covered in scratches
Sparse furniture dotting a glowing coffin of an apartment
Cold wooden floors covered in splintered ragged flaws
They seem to symbolize my simplistically docile existence
Loud appliances initiate a space of sound among shy reality
Humming angrily as if to protest the squalor that permeates
Each corner a home for shadows and other vague concepts
A dripping sink adding rhythm among a patternless orchestra
Raise ones head and you can see the spotted stains above
telling a story willing to evoke bitter and mirthless laughter
Cracks spidering across an endless sea of greying white paint
Reminiscent of the worn and aged skin of a toiling farmer
The window glares as light slowly scatters through stained glass
Images of cultists taking their lives within such light reels
Slightly blurred images and a rocking unsteady camcorder
Catching the final moments of mentally deranged beings
The moon shines mercilessly upon the reflective street below
Its not that I think I can escape the reality I have set upon
Its all about perspective and deeply intwined imagination
Within a shadowy and ghostly place I still call my home
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