I used to think home was made of sticks, bricks, and nails
Existing between four walls
It came with an address, a street name and a mailbox
The place to where I belonged
When I grew up home became something else
A place where blood would reside
The warming comfort of family and friends
Those I laugh with and share my secrets
Spanned out over a lifetime
For a while thereafter, home became non-existent
As friends and family scattered their own ways
The idea of home, painted so colorfully once
Found reasons and ways to disseminate
Home became fictitious
A dreamt up existence
A thing that made me feel cozy inside
The thought that life is perfect in that little bubble
And could never pivot to demise
Reality is odd in how it translates
Where home is truly subjective
Our idea from the outside, usually the frosting
Catering to hopeful delusion
The cake underneath made of glass shards and sulphur
That rip and disintegrate as it’s ingestedimagesd3ile5bm
Now home is wherever that I can feel safe
Where I feel loved, encouraged and accepted
Within the walls of tranquility
And the souls that present eternal love
The embrace of those holding their devotion
Home is the place we carry with us
Wherever we go, whoever we become
Home resides in perpetual motion