is the idea of home.
Is it the place we abide?
Or the essence of where our soul can hide?
Is home a place of rest?
Or that which we know best?
Maybe it’s that sweet, familiar smell
or the toll of that old city bell.
Perhaps home is the laughter of a child;
sweet as can be though temper mild.
Possibly the tears shed among those who have now passed?
Their memory certainly brings a joy that lasts.
Certainly home couldn’t be multiple a location, could it?
What of those who faced the storm and withstood it?
Maybe home isn’t as defined as one would think
Specific to the individual, in its own way unique.
Home for this weary soul is of memory’s hold.
Times when love was more than told, it was shown.
Home is the ashes of friendships torn;
Hopeless as can be though newly born.
Home is where the heart is?
I believe home is where the heart was left.
Perceive not the intention of the soul
When one’s very own is shuttered in the cold.
My home is the place where I was formed
Broken, molded, grown, reborn.
My home is a place full of every notion,
An entity overflowing with emotion.
I see the grass, I feel the tender breeze.
I look forward and breathe in these memories.
Maybe I’m not as restful as I wished,
nostalgia touches me as though I were kissed.
Gentle, soothing, yet powerful all the same
is the longing for this longing to be tamed.
I feel as though my soul will always roam
So long as I long to come home.
Words by Matthew Malin©