22

if words could be put in more than graceful arrangements
and if feelings could be aligned in disarraignment
if things were to make sense between absurdity and doubt
there would be less things in life to figure out

if the mind could find ways to implode
so as not to reveal all that needs to be told--
epiphones become daily euphamisms
of a life seemingly lived in dualism

if ambiguity was an art, she’d be the master
she would muster up questions that remain unanswered
abstract thinking would become the norm

for if home is where the heart is,


maybe she isn’t quite home.