Home was a void of obscurity. Home was somewhere far away from me. And I was here; climbing a tree.
Not those dejected ones in the park across the street; tangled in the misery of the city.
Vastly alone and neglected.
No - I mean the maples on 23rd and 4th street.
The spoils of nature.
Prisoners in a bare skeleton of human existence.
Tortured in anguish without the mirth of indifferent wind and a teasing sun.
So I climbed them.
I was small - they could carry me, there, far ascending above the eyes of the city.
I think the city is called Menesque - but I really didn't care.
The trees didn't.
The calm of their presence ignored everything else.
They were silently alone.
I was like the trees, I suppose.
Not alone, but tortured in anguish without the indifferent familiarity of my world.
My somewhere special.
But that was vague wishful thinking.
Home was a void of obscurity.
Home was somewhere far away from me.
And I was here; climbing a tree.