We are captives of our feeling
Drifting where it's pleasing.
Missing? Looped roads and trees,
Or warmth of skeptic companies?
Living on surface- faking breathing
Placing rigorous limits on loving.

So, is there a corner you're living?
Not wearing skins nor weathering
Enveloped in amor- as pure as lilies.

Why to press the oldest writings blindly?
As a fragmented phrase is yet to complete
"The home is where our heart is".
But the heart is where our feelings
Not like an anchor, waving- leaving.
Drifting where it's pleasing.