Always in transit
Moving shifting changing
Like red blood cells
Always on the road
Running down the veins
Nowhere to call home
Thrown from house to house
Personal spaces transform into changing rooms
And the heart is a revolving door
Opening to nothing and closing to everything
When can I stay and embrace,
Without taking flight from every borrowed nest?
What happens to birds that are tired of flying, I wonder, and why we never hear of them?
Then, I realise that buried wings cannot share tales.