Thy Abode

I was my abode,

Flying sparkles through corridors,

Watching monocled French,

Studying Chiron of intellect,

And running on little taciturn.

I was home to my disorder, 

Setting foot on velvety rose petals,

I so disliked, chastised my fears.

But too,

I'm the thawing summertime,

And mere cuts of winter frostbites. 

I loved the calliope,

It smelt reminiscing,

I loved the harp,

It sounded promising,

I was home to my symphony,

Crisp and cure,

On a fair day, so lovely; so pure.

I'm the porous boned bird,

Wingless on my demands,

Soft as the dream,

Dancing through the dusty parch fields.

I was my abode of springtime, 

Rushing on under my fingertips.

I were morning raindrops,

Storm stirred on your lap,

Tripping over sunburns,

Waiting for the cosmos to return.

I was home again, but,

Grace didn't respond,

I was abode to life,

Of rivers made of gold flow,

Magnum opus; and you are still so.

You're angel raw, star flecked,

I were home to you,

But you remained my disgrace.