How much of self is dissolved matter that flakes off with the skin?
How much of I is elevated idol worship inwardly related and then placed Upon one's brow?
The tortured rhymes from those suffering deep inside, one should never Refute or rebute genuine pain,
Joy is an ignorant, reckless revelation, because it has more obstacles almost Than the matter that exists,
One has to be spiritually confident, socially impotent, to be happy,
The Soul traverses the vast ocean for human belonging,
Along the way,one encounters
Lighthouses with their temptress smile, smiling pure gold,
Waiting to open their mouths and swallow you whole,
Islands with their savage sanctity, pressing coconut water on wounds and Dripping rainforest lush, while ants eat away the stomach,
Home, the only shore ne'er too foreign, one wears home upon their heart,
Marking a longing eternal,
The only place where water doesn't seem to seep and suck your blood like A lusty leach,
Where family is friend and friend is family, and foes are welcome just the Same,
Where the heart longs it longs deep, and when the ship creeks your Stomach churns with it, when the bow dips your heart sinks,
Home is the furthest shore from the port, the closest shore in the mind,
The mind digs and digs for sweet comfort and relaxation,
A cold beer and whatever feels right,
The deep digs in and the heart follows,
Home for many is really on the bottom of the tumultuous sea,
That teems with life and toys with lives.
by Erik Estabrook
Poet, blogger and talk show co-host Blog Talk Radio with Sandra Fuentes Lang