They say home is where the heart is and they talk about the circle of life. But home feels more like a tomb, which may be the final residence but it’s no damn circle. But, then again, home is where the heartache is: it’s piles of scorched possessions and the relentless upkeep unkempt. But, after all, I’m a rolling stone so I’ll leave that moss behind.
Reflections on language, learning, and loss in paltry poetry and prose