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by Heather Cumbo 9 months ago in performance poetry
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Home for a Drifting Spirit

Photo by Chantal & Ole on Unsplash

An ethereal spirit

who drifts from crowd to crowd

without ever fitting in

never feels at home


The heart longs for

and belongs to

so many things.

A blue smoky jazz café,

a bonfire by a farmyard pond,

opening night for a Broadway play,

or a quiet book nook with a cup of tea.

I tell people of my past lives.

"I was a hippie once."

"I went through a goth stage."

"I've been to a couple steampunk conventions."

Some see me as a wife and mother.

Some people call me crazy,

or, to be nice, unique.

Or special.

But where is my home?

I am a wisp.

I drift along in this world,

going unnoticed by many,

appreciated by few.

I float among the people who love me,

hoping to leave a gentle impression,

yet knowing I've chilled some hearts.

I make my home where I want.

I do what I want.

I am content.

And I shall never, ever die.

performance poetry

About the author

Heather Cumbo


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