Wednesday, June 16, 2010


By Michael Weems
When nowhere in particular feels like home, where do I rest?
When do I get to close my eyes and breathe peacefully – to feel that
       rise and fall and the warmth of safety overcomes my body as I
       drift away?
I sleep without movement or dreams – the bare act of sleep without
       the color to entertain until the next morning.
Yet, who am I to complain?
In this place, I have a surface beneath me each night.
A bed like all others, large, comfortable, and strong - my mate rests
I have solid wood floors, cold and unfamiliar underneath my feet and
       a sturdy roof overhead.
I have food and comfort; I have love and acceptance.
Why do I still wake up lost? Searching for that seemingly impossible
I wake in the middle of the night and pace the giant halls - a search
       for a secret room of my own that inevitably ends in
The bed brings no rest; a gigantic mass of cloth and spring that can’t
       lull sleep.
The floors feel foreign and rough on my bare feet; my footstep’s echo
       rings unfamiliar.
The roof hovers - a permanent dome – encapsulating me in this
       moment of stasis.
Tomorrow, when I wake, things will remain the same-
Once my eyes focus, the ceiling will be the same off white color.
As I begrudgingly stand, the floors will be cold to each step.
And as I drive away, the roof will shrink in the distance –
Only to return to it’s original size when I come back later that
Life stays the same, but we keep looking. Always looking.
Michael Weems ekes out time to write amongst the crazy heat/humidity, incredible and fattening food, his demanding but adorable sons, and dear wife. Michael dabbles in all genres of writing, but ultimately keeps hoping to get his work on display in order to challenge the way people think.

And crazy heat? Michael is a Yankee gone South. After seven tumultuous years in NYC he now calls Texas home.

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