When I came back,
To my home turf, I found myself,
Too cosmopolitan to my liking,
The waffles and maple syrup, at breakfast,
The sweet cappuccinos at plush coffee shops,
And not having rice and curry for
All three meals. Yet, I cracked
Open my heart, to remember my early years,
The porridge, the sambal on toast,
And still, I saw the glass as half empty,
And rarely half full.
I guess the loft of your dreams,
Lies somewhere, as a flickering star in the sky.
How St Elmo’s Fire, or a luminescent firefly
In the sodden dark, is holding your home turf,
From cracking, right beneath your feet.
I always had spectacular eyes,
And yet the bed of earth, below my two feet,
The horizon in front of me,
The air fortress around me,
How from an observation deck,
You can either see, the 12 apostles,
Like in the periphery of Melbourne,
Faith captured in,
Beautifully carved stone.
You are rendered a visual,
Of the Grand Canyon,
Where one little sapling remains,
Far into the distance,
As the psychosis of a heart,
Stubbornly holds on, unfazed,
Knowing a mirage can be real,
To the desperate eye,
Like how I was, seeing, that lonely canopy
In the middle of a lifeless canyon.
Hope, I guess, lives on inside
My naive heart, bamboozling me,
On my observation outpost,
My gullibility, the source,
Of my obdurate survival.