Where

The mountain falls into a blur A swirling vortex of nothing A carpet lapped up into green A tiny globe of jungle asphyxiated. There lurks a mirage cloaked in cellophane Where they speak with their achtung And flammen. The innards glow like Towering amber streetlights I am always amazed that it never Melts this landlock into nothing But a sea within solids. I have Every convenience nurtured to me, like a womb I dislike your alien charm but it still Amuses me that you turn it on like a drum Machine and waste a day or more. They do not speak your foul language Here in the avoirdupois heart of benevolent Solitude. And as such you make a fine Black draped missionary out of me. My Wonderous charity. I become a microphone Your relentless larynx. I hate it But not necessarily enough. I will meet you there in the white vapoured soul Of a limp black flag. Where I deface The unspoken with my crude and childish Scribble. Where I know it by a singular Mothered and neutered word Home.