For countless desert years I searched in vain
and made my bed unconsciously in stone.
I never could my loneliness explain
and all my garden gates were overgrown.
In caves I sought my solace like a thief
who plunders from the far side of the sun;
I flirted with the fires of disbelief
avoiding love’s debris (that smoking gun).
Thus every time I thought I’d settled down —
(uncomfortable couches were my home
and troglodytish parlours proved my frown) —
I disillusioned was with where I roamed.
My foolish bolthole choices all fell through
because I’d nowhere else to go but you.
© 2011, Alan Morrison