I’ve just walked out the door, but I can’t find my way home.
The building, the walls, even the floors are foreign.
I was walking to the garage, to hop on my snowmobile,
but with every step I took, nothing was the same as it was before.
I clattered back up the stairs after only going down two flights,
but nothing remained similar, nothing stayed the same.
A man recognized me, “Hey you live one floor below.”
I ran through the door, afraid the elevator would bring me to a different dimension.
I exited the stairs and found myself in a shop.
“This is not my home.”
I ran up 23 floors, but my building only had 8, I searched to no avail,
for the little ornament that welcomed me home everyday after work.
Then I stopped somewhere on the 15th floor,
I closed my eyes and remembered this was never my home.
When they opened i saw my door, opened it, and walked through.
I remember why I had taken residence here. Not to make a home,
but to find where I belong, where we all must go.
The one place that we all had once called home.