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.


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