Running Back Home

If running back home was a vessel

It would be garlanded with participation ribbons

Followed by politely lacklustre applause.

It would have been built with tentative hands

Using unlost driftwood scattered by the feet

Of designers rehearsed in poorly drawn lines

And Emily Dickinson’s poetry.

 

If running back home was a business

It would be the front for a secret organisation

That harvested hearts made of smoke

And souls filled with the ashes of dreams.

It would have harboured its merchandise

Using forklifts powered by water and oxygen

And all the other essential givers of life.

 

If running back home was a church

It would only accept donations of blood

Served on platters of silver polished with grace.

It would give sermons in parseltongue

To withered palm trees displaced by aesthetics

Onto historical salt mines rubbed into wounds

Cultivated by organ donors.

 

Running back home tugs at the heart.

 

That is, if home, like time, always runs forward.

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