Splintered amongst our feet,
the birchwood door we have come to love.
Gave comfort in time of refreshment.
Praised security with needless fear.

--A deep sigh in the stress--

Considerably, holding back.
Inevitably for the drive.
Don’t get used to it.
We all move on.

Forced Out.

We are all aliens,
askew in the burnt out corridor,
with collaborated paths,
journeys,
truths, turns.

Our motherland is shared,
an impossible carrot from a string,
bobbed out from our stonecold heads.

The drive keeps us safe.
Save from satisfaction,
keen on discovery.

But ultimately,
we must choose for ourselves
our own homes,
cutting the friendly, worn out knots.

We, ourselves,
paint distorted caricatures of better people.