sea of souls

I only became aware of myself at the tail end of the bohemian diaspora, and my home is the missed opportunity. Where did they all go? Tossed aside to make room for marketdroids with sterile aesthetics and too much to drink; no artists are in paradise anymore.

My home is the coffee house that doesn't close, the table in the corner that really only sits one comfortably, and I'm their best customer.

My home is the shallow sound-carrying wind that washes sin from one person to the next in the sea of souls called Krishna.

My home is not this body or the next, but someday I will make it.