It’s warm.

It’s a trash heap.

It’s home.

The center is a house of afterthoughts built with bricks of memories —

They’re good for you, those bricks of memory cold-pressed like your green juice

Forever cycling between pictures of faces and places, new thoughts get plastered to a dome that kisses the clouds

Sweet grass crumbles under your feet – green soldiers scattered about brown footprints for their fallen comrades

It smells like a library but with no book in sight, paradise is no longer fiction

Fiction is a figment of the imagination and there is no fiction here.

When you look at the sky, the stars look back and wave before they die; you are the last face they see

Do they resent this las moment stolen by you and your trash heap of memories?

Where do you run for cover when facing the wrath of angry stars mourning for a fallen constellation?

Do stars pray? Where does a star worship the ground it walks on?

Where does a star seek spiritual security in the temple of its own construction

A trash heap of thoughts and memories is where I go – no windows or walls yet a home just the same

A roof over a head and a door for safe passage —

How do stars find safe passage?

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