Homeless

gentle artificial light

touches the ground fingerlessly,

my heart wishing to nevertheless

hold its hand, be guided to the inside--

I am no fool, yet my hand is empty

of the security that is home,

as the shine from the interior

mocks my cold and lonesome palm.

it is painful, yes, the icy grip

that won’t leave from between my fingers,

in that it reminds me

of that place where fire burns,

that chambered place

where warmth always returns.

and I can see the light

beyond the fogging pane,

where I am unrecognized

hence my bloodless knuckles

clenched and pressed

against the frosted, illuminated ground,

where my hand wishes to hold

a hand of the heart,

who’d seat me in its chambers

to regain color in the visible warmth.