Morning welcomes me with fresh smells,
of a million defaecating souls on the fresh dew,
innocently awaiting the cleanser from afar,
struck by a reminder of endless horizons already cluttered,
living off a land that is reluctant to give.
Home has no sweeter meaning right now,
as I smile at the petty thoughts of artistic inclinations,
rotting even before they ripen in my head.
The blue mountains wait, expectant,
wondering if another foster son,
might feel the pangs of a better home.
A heavy door slams my thoughts and those millions shut,
leaving nothing behind,
except for my nostrils filled with fumes and brake dust.
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