Making home

I wonder if I will ever stop
carefully arranging
this disorder that surrounds me.
building and
and re-arranging
every space
outside of me
to make space
to make better
every thought
that is cloaked in distress.
thinking it can change
as if an excellent new hat or a tatty old dress.
I wonder if I will ever stop
reviving the manic
making home for the panic.
delicately compiling
then retreading
each space
again and again
with the sweet, sweet
of a mind finally at peace
but order does not bring it.
Disorder does not bring it.
For a mind that found it’s home
in amongst the wreckage
can never be sure where safety lies
there is comfort in the madness
for it is an old familiar friend.
there is terror in the calm
when calm is but a stranger
A stranger
delicately urging,
of a new place to call home
a new space to rearrange.