Riddle me Home
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009

 

My home is a riddle
That I don't quite grasp
It has its own middle
It has a lock and a hasp
It has a rooftop of twiddle
It has me in its grasp
I sit here like a twig
In a lit living room I sit

My house is like a question
I can enter but can I solve
It revolves around this ravid
Feed that now evolves
Into something without a name
Into something that I can't tame
Into something I cannot claim
To own, not on my own

Nor on anyones containment
I cannot seem to refrain from
Fortune and fame, maybe
Someday when I lack an apron
Or the ability to fillings flee
And clean up my own mess

I confess
Every lower being has its own