This Isn’t Home

Knotted tightly in my psyche is a feral call:
a plea to return to an unvisited place
where unfamiliar arms can bring rest.
 
Routine saps the life from my soul - 
within safety it writhes in silent agony
Lacking nourishment unknown - unnamed.
Hunger looks inward to survive famine. 
Ravenous claws stripping only prime cuts -
psychological filet, served bloody and rare. 

I will be the last to walk away from me. 
The world unrecognisably cold and damp
under the footsteps of a more fulfilling life
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