Some of us have home
some of us have home in despair, in the wandering of souls.
Some of us don’t have home…only death is the intangible motel…
And some of us who trade words for a life don’t have home even in our death.
The grey road goes on through the desert…
beer in hand, music that makes you liquid,
and some thoughts that keep repeating back to be fooled…to be thrashed…
Poets and explorers differ in one point,
the construction of their time.

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Photograph: Petya Kalvacheva.