Home

I use to draw pictures of tall skyscrapers reaching
to the sky, to the world, where I may never see
I use to dream of a pasture, filled with trees
With fruits beaming from the tallest branches

So to the sea or ocean as some may call it
With my old black bag and dollar or so
I set out to find the land of freedom
A land that many have called their home

On board a dozen other red faced families
and children running about like anyday
I heard of the high bones above the eye
While ours lay flat as if something was wrong

I heard of the beauty and calmness of the air
Though it seems the ocean matches that as well
And I begin to wonder what home was to me
Not something I heard, perhaps something I dreamed

And dreams tend to float toward the horizon
Unseen and unanswered even with a guide
I peer behind where the shadow of my past loomed
And I longed to return to my heritage home