LJI 11 W0: Intro
It's time for homecoming, no more roaming, get back to the home we're always in within our skin. You enter the door, wanderin' your way across the floor, surrounded by this lore of yours you made in days before. Brush your fingers across the boxes that store the things you've done. Some for fun, some you must, but one by one you put them down to gather dust looking for something more.
In the closets and drawers, old things of yours; what you wore, who you were, looks you'd like to wear again should chance occur. But you're no longer there, that's then, lost in the blur. Shelf after shelf of books with stories of self you glory, a wealthy repertory both laudatory and derogatory, spun as allegories read by those you trust not to bore.
The space ends at your bed in the darkening grey of the day, soon you'll lay your head down there and be, asleep. But there on the sheets is a pen and notes, some words you wrote left incomplete. You see a chance to stay awake, a tale from you to me to make, so gather up your stores and take a seat.
It's time we meet.
In the closets and drawers, old things of yours; what you wore, who you were, looks you'd like to wear again should chance occur. But you're no longer there, that's then, lost in the blur. Shelf after shelf of books with stories of self you glory, a wealthy repertory both laudatory and derogatory, spun as allegories read by those you trust not to bore.
The space ends at your bed in the darkening grey of the day, soon you'll lay your head down there and be, asleep. But there on the sheets is a pen and notes, some words you wrote left incomplete. You see a chance to stay awake, a tale from you to me to make, so gather up your stores and take a seat.
It's time we meet.