Real

Real
Real as glass
Against my hand
Obstinate
Shades of gray
On moving canvas
Real
Voices in the stairwell
Behind me
Running, running, running,
Legs—muscleless twigs
Murmuring whispers
Voices sound strange
Yet familiar
Following me
Forever
Longing for the comfort
Of home
I crossed an ocean
Hoping to find it
But it eludes
The chased victim
The satyr, joyful hiding
The escaped prisoner.
Real
As the crumbling bricks
Of a house
That was never a home
And the misted memories of a home
That was never a house