Fixated on a house,
Never using the word ‘home’
For it was merely a word,
Attached to a meaningless box.

Vibrancy in childish hands,
Watercolour and crayons—
I surrounded the abodes
With flowers and rainbows,
hoping to make myself
feel more welcome.

Years painted over years,
Colors muted to ideals—
I grew through my will,
Finding darkness comfort.

‘Home’ continued to elude
Until I found union with God—
Inside a house,
But always at Home.

“it’s part of being a creative.”
The highs and lows.
The brightness of the world
And the taste
Of it all.
The thoughts recede
As my hand passes through
The barrier to darkness,
Never fully in one,
unbalanced.

Speedbumps on my skin,
Worries scrambling up a hill,
Encased in the backyard
Of who I was.
The nostalgia hit my heart,
Pleated its lips,
And begged me to stay.
I watched as the returned
Insecurity changed the color
Of the sky—
A dilapidated yellow,
A buzzing of anxiety,
A thought spiral instigated
by the Enemy.

Pushed in close under a shoulder,
Knobby knees pressed together,
Four intentionally designed souls
Enveloped by a warm blanket,
Blocking the ocean winds—
Uneven sand under tired feet,
Simple words and hushed voices,
All amounting to prayer and praise
For the center of our circle—
Our eternal Saviour.

Waiting in the afterburn of a photo,
The summer sun seared into my eyes,
Feeling the blurry space of filled time.

Long-forgotten jokes tight in my chest,
A constant smile developing worry lines—
I watched the goldenhour subside.

Where would the memories go,
If I did not grab hold of them?

A soft pink veil filtered the internal upset,
A clock ratcheting in my headspace--
Limbs lengthened, faces matured,
And I was left wondering at what point
I started living in fear
Of watching the time go, adrift without
The guide of the lighthouse of childhood.