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whalebone: a poem

this home is mine
and mine alone;
you'll never know it by name.

patient paws have padded the
close-thicket carpets,
but it's mine all the same.

you'll find me in the reverie
of someone i once knew,
or in the eyes of the dawn
as it breaks across the sky

before it casts itself anew.

some say you can't know comfort
until you've left and then returned
to find that ghosts, homesick and love drunk,
have lived through all that you have yearned.

i'm too lost in the lilt
of the voices. the voices of my kin;
the cadence of white hot embers
penning love letters to the din.

i do not leave the levels.
i befriend my firsts and lasts.
i walk around in circles,
leaving footsteps from days past.

the constant of the slick whalebone
from which i have grown,
swaying softly towards midwinter,
the host i know to be my home.

these bones, full grown, belong to you,
when i'm done with all this mess.
time here played out with a clear end-view
that i'll always know you


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