No House Is A Home

A house that was home; became the past;
I never thought that it’d come to be;
I thought that home was meant to last;
for it had become a part of me.

A place where I scattered toys and clothes;
at a time when I was still young;
a place I’d stay, with a curfew imposed;
my prison, till homework was done.

I had to realize, it was a temporary home;
and someday I was destined to leave it;
down deep I knew I would be all alone;
but, my mind refused to believe it.

Fast forward ahead; a new place to be;
another one, offering possibilities;
it seemed to be almost perfect for me;
but, it posed its own liabilities.

A home is not simply cobblestone;
nor, is it comprised of brick;
it’s where, by circumstance, thrown;
not often the place you’d pick.

I lived several lifetimes this way;
all the while, seeking stability;
in hope of finding a place, to stay
one full of peace and tranquility.

We think our body is a permanent home;
where, forever, our soul can dwell;
but, the soul was created, ever to roam;
the body is only the soul’s motel.

Monty 1/25/22. # 945