A time will come

(won't it?)

when I will cease

to be wary

of reckoning

(red foreboding glyph)

for all my

golden hours;

when guilt 

(parasite

gut-worm

of Conscience)

will not have to be

dodged

(or blithed out)

at every corner

Day and Night

for events reals

or hypothetical;

when Time

will be renewed

in its Density

and Fabric

(tell me more)

made whole

into a thing

of Substance;

when holding her hand

holding her close

will not have to be done

on a schedule 

(make every breath count)

on the clock

(tick tock)

with so much planning;

when the days spent

with my children

(so little time)

will no longer

be made up

of sweat and toil

(not-merry-go-round

of senseless repetition)

in a faraway world 

parallel to theirs;

when I will catch up

with myself

(soon, I hope?)

and there

shall make a stand;

when I will fully understand

that all of my curses

(I cultivated them so well)

can be made

into blessings;

when I will grasp at last

that the darkness

inside of me

is a source of strength

(it will be made to

by hook or by crook

or else what a waste)

and so should never

be shunned

or be made

to shrink;

when by virtue

of the ink

on my fingers

and in my blood

I will become

a custodian

of storytelling

(you wish...)

in humble obscurity

seeming uselessness

and justified indifference;

when I won't have to submit

(you think that's possible?)

and will be master

of my comings & goings

into human society

or my solitary retreats;

when I will reach

(after endless building 

and finding

conjuring 

and summoning

excavating

burgeoning

bridging

rejuvinating

ressurecting)

the multiple

the infinite 

intimate places

that I can call

Home.