The Mills were a birthing pod of sorts-

a place to feel at home and become invisible.

Mental torture rounded every corner followed by chattering and gossip really never sleeps.

But the Mills forgave and forgot. Hands were dealt and the Saint grew up.

Chased tennis stars, cheerleaders and the band around like a puppy

on wheels

                   challenged by self doubt

                                                                 the Mills weren't always forgiving.

A Steeler

supposed to be a warrior

without weapons or king to fight for

like going to war over confusion and lack of war.

It seemed like a dream-

most days-

stone faced and liquid treatment.

He'll recognize it as home, but only temporary

a stopping point in a failed family road trip.

Treatment will change

                                          but always read

Distilled for the 

eradication of seemingly

incurable sadness-

Welcome home.