Going

When I'm not there
I long for my humble abode, it is
my safe haven, my heart, an
even tempered sanctuary, where I go each evening,
eagerly awaited five o'clock finally coming.
I race to my car and get in,
drive rapidly across
my little town to get to the
one place that is like fields
of roses and bunnies, the one
space that never
lets me down, always soothing, unseen
peace awaiting my return before
the following morning that
inevitably reappears. Sunrise lights
the southern windows brilliantly, clear jewels, no
need for electric lamps
to push back the silken
darkness that last night enfolded this humble castle fit
for the princess it seems
I am, finally at
long last I am home, a
lifetime of fifty years of homelessness, a distance
of time that is unfathomable to me yet.
Why did I have to wait so long for this, when
desperately I needed my own perfect fit
but now I am here and it is
as impeccable as if I had drawn
the floor plans and location up
myself beforehand, but at last it is over
this long journey and seeking of the
place where I can fall to my knees
and rest with myself and my battered, healing soul and
espy the red breast
of a robin in the backyard, welcoming. It
sings a song just for me and brings
a joy and a belonging that no
person or building or thing ever has. I cherish the comfort
of this space, in my soul, where
there has
never been true contentment until now. It was worth the
long wait, each apple and chokecherry and dwarf cherry tree
in the secluded back yard waving in the slightest breeze. I was just gone
from this home for the first half of my life, I now see, that
I was busy living, locked
into the expectations that certain other riders of Earth
tried to fit on me, to
ground me, when I just wanted to soar into the sky
and never look back at their clutching hands. What
did they expect me to do? It is
beyond understanding why I played for so long, under
the lash of addiction and family, I was my
own worst enemy in their hands.
I am now free from all that.
Just loving me, I
won't be what they want and cannot
have any remorse or feel
guilt over their crazed beliefs. What
should I do to make sure that nothing ever loads
me with heavinesss, clips my wings, clouds my
soul? My own hands
push them away, hugging myself, refusing to feel down.

Inspired by the prompt at and posted for Day Four, NaPoWriMo, "Write a Golden Shovel Poem.", 4/5/14
Inspiration Poem for my Golden Shovel: Philip Larkin, "Going"