Home. Poem by Hunter James

A ray of light greets my leg as it spiders up and down the paper walls in distressed quivers. I seem to have found the switch on the broken camera, to be capable of capturing the slyest act of light and turn it into an unmoving arrangement of the alphabet. The window shows a town I once grew and cried and shrunk and dried in. I watch the air produce ocean tinted swirls of summers April. Dinner sounds vibrate throughout the dim filtered kitchen. Why is this so tearing? Such an unwelcomed realisation, that the town that birthed your utter confusion is in fact your home. My eyes wonder upon the polished floor boards that run into the mahogany diner shone through the sun stained collaboration of homely particles. Its marvellous and always here.
Home isn't where the heart is, its where it was. Its where the trees first turned to golden pillars on your purest mindset. Its where the soil first smiled around your easy brown feet in five am connection between mind and finger tips. Its where you first birthed insomnia on your sunburnt back while spaghetti sounds overtook the light dispersed streets. It surrounds the pavement that captured your final winter tears at the beginning of your coldest summer. Its smeared against the pale blue sky that witnessed the chart graph of your flexible heart. Home is where the witness lives, the witness to the destructive confusion, unreasoned love and the rapid downfall. Its where your dreams became light and your light became nothing. Home's where the slope ascends from the forever searched out sacred middle ground. Home is the witness.
Home is proof, that love is good and pain is good and love will again be good and pain will again be there. `