Home becomes not home.
It is never to be recalled.
It is never safe.
Our home is the impossible, it is never the destination.
That great love, that want to act, that which once stood here in equanimity, this place where humbly all was possible.
The wall equally positioned, all around.
Home becomes memory.
Before our nakedness and this insufferable need
there is a desolation wherein no clothing and no satisfaction will ever be possible.
Memory becomes not memory.
Memory becomes refuge.
The world ending is ever capable of generating approximate desolations.
Refuge becomes not refuge.
Refuge becomes path.
The world ending ever generates new worlds, ever ending. The incomplete completion, the succour of devastation.
Path never ceases.
Path becomes home.
That wall equally around all.
Path becomes memory.
Path becomes refuge
Refuge dissolves into the possible.
The abysmal bleeds its own abyss. Between walls of nothing and nothingness of wall, the equal touch, an energetic vastness.
This is possibly our home. Ever ever does that great love need to act.
Our home is the impossible, a trembling memory, a tumbling path, an open refuge;
it is never safe,
it is never the destination,
it is never here to be recalled.