SCENERY IN MY ARTERIES

charity begins at home. once, surely, it was home; it was the place we all called home. 
slowly our hearts began to know what evil the eyes saw not, and ears never heard. small eyes.. mature with the unveiling of filthy, little loud secrets. home, they say, is where the heart is, and that explains the scenery in my arteries. 
a heart filled with dusty roads and wild horses, broken glasses and thorn roses. home is where the heart is, alright. 
Charity, holds the hunger of the world in her belly. a honeycomb home she built for when her honey comes home, she's lost that to the streets now, you see... but that's quite alright too. afternoon in the park, a few bees and a butterfly guard the trash. Charity's lost in the thrill of stashing leftovers for lunch. she's way passed the mark; needy is their remark, omitted and convicted as needy, and not the needless. 
native and beastly are these cold streets, with torn sheets and coin slits between the wrist. Charity, for a penny, is no loner on the corner of these streets.  every passerby is a neighbor she firmly greets. 
her home is not for sale. Charity's home is not for sale. not by the fireplace nor curb kissed streets on cold winter's eve. 
she's lost her sanity, imprisoned with her dignity. crowds of banners in these same streets screaming for zero taxes on her bail prices! charity's insanity, corruption's brutality.. it's a new world order of hatred in reciprocity. 
charity begins at home. she sits now in the streets, corner of broadway and the elitist street. it's a library where she's come to stay. many neighbors need not pay for worlds she authored in that library space, if they'll only look in her face.