Picture by author

The sun is at my head, but I really don’t care;

Tell me I’m at home till it’s not there.

The breezes make me ice cold and warm, too;

Let me hold you tight till it’s not fair.

The fall is picturesque, and the leaves are gold;

And nostalgia runs down in the form of tears.

The winter is coming, I might catch a glimpse;

Surely, death is the last thing that I fear.

My vision is blurry, and I’m numb, too;

My heart breaks twice when all is clear.

There’s rumbling in my heart, are you still there?

Is this last time; that WE are here?

Perhaps I’m homesick, and I’m on my way;

To a place called home, I don’t know where.