Yet I remember I'd bury myself in a book
Or a poem. You know, I'd scribble my own
Because I esteemed pen flow much simpler
Than the mouth. Rooftops were not home
To a girl, verb shy, her mouth a vault.
It'd take me years and love to vault
Over aches and tears (by years now gone)
And talk. Slowly now I find my home
In the skin I live, not so much in a book.
Talking opens windows. It's much simpler,
But the gift ain't gone - still I scribble my own.
Each, we have a gift of our own
To use, rather than store in the vault
Of our hearts. It's been said the simpler
Pass on - here today, tomorrow gone?
Their names go down in no man's book
And the darkness be their eternal home.
Though far we stray, we'll all come home
One day, whether come we on our own
Or forced by the call of some year-book,
Stored away in a high school vault.
Though memory fade and youth now gone
Reunions seem to make it all simpler.
We sometimes yearn for ages simpler
And yen so much for our childhood home,
Which for some remains, not razed or gone.
This town, I would learn to call my own
And my memories, not lying in a rusty vault
Burst from pages in my mental book.
Perhaps it's me who'll write that book
Of conspiracy plots, or poems simpler -
One day the insides of a museum vault
They'll rest in pages, and call it home.
So I have a "most likely" of my own -
This "poet laureate." The gift's not gone.
The vault of my own mouth be gone.
In any state, I'll be contently home
And writing my book in simpler joy.