So many of my dreams are set in my place of birth
and the house I, uncomprehendingly, was raised in.
And in nearly every one of them I find myself
repeatedly searching for a missing happiness
through the people who said they were my family.
Every overlay of my night time adventures
set in the past wakes me up mildly frit,
fretting at words amiss, without knowing why,
at actions that seem beyond comprehension.
On waking up and reflecting I remember
some recent occasion in which I recognize
the actions of the dream.
But still the location drags me back
to where I know now never belonged.
At least the ache proves I have a heart.