All this time

All this time you thought I was here, but it's all been an illusion.
The quiet whispers of truth in the dark may be the cause of your confusion
but I was never really here to begin with, so how can my absence be my fault?

I thought I was home, but home turned out to be a place I've never been.
Not then, not now, not here, not there. Home is where I rest my heart
but I have never been here at all, and my heart is gone with the rest.

I longed to be here, safe, secure. Longing isn't being, though.
Security is just a word -so easily said yet meaningless; every day meaning less.
It's all meaning-less; every word, every promise, every whispered vow.

Where are you now?

You've never really been here at all, it's all been an illusion.
Have you ever stood behind your whispered words? Your sacred, nothing-words?
I listen for them and I wonder: is this the cause of my confusion?

But if you were never here, how can your absence be your fault?
I let my heart rest in the wrong place, and, restless now,
I'll wander to the home where I have never been before, alone.