A change of heart

Where is my home? Please change my mind.

I’m so over the clutter and fuss.

Far too many long years, I’ve watched mountains grow

and dreams mixing down with the dust.

Forgive me for taking the pith on this.

It’s entirely because I am cynical.

But homes and hearts and hats on stands

make depression types overly clinical.

A niche to seek out, keep looking no doubt

till the cows come ambling home.

It’s where we return, from cruel world so stern

and all manner of things fairly roam.

So yes, I’m at home in my little square box,

surrounded by memories long past.

It’s long past time to clear these things out.

And I’ll try. Yes, I will try. I must!

Now, rethinking home, I’m lucky at least -

there’s a solid roof over head.

Doors, windows and light; yes, I just might

rebuild what’s here in my head.

For the cut, anxious heart, a very good start

is the tightest swaddled cocoon.

But what fabric here would comfort me dear?

What strong warp and weft on the loom?

So much time I’m alone; hiding out I am prone,

asking where I'd rather be?

Conversation, a joke, with woman or bloke;

happiness and comfort are key!

A boiling kettle, a cup, and something to sup,

full vase from the garden out there;

fluffy slippers, a wrap, fuzzy friend on my lap

and plenty of more comfy chairs.

Whether cottage or flat, apartment or block,

it’s less about mortar and brick.

Guard against walls keeping everyone out.

Keep your heart open; that’s the real trick.

Home is much more than a stone domicile

or where we keep all of our things.

It’s open, safe, snug, no fear and no bug

and where our hearts freely sing.