Home

In this great expanse of entropy and din,

this Coliseum seen fit to call Earth,

many live and expire finding little comfort without or within.

Privileged are those who manage to find a constant hearth.

We are all thrust into blood-soaked sand,

in front of the teeming stands cacophonous yet uncaring,

much of us without a brother nor keeper with whom to band,

to help get one's bearing.

Much less to have a Mother or Father

to give a tender or caring word.

Orphans sired but not admired by another

must hack our way out with only a sword.

A mind to devise and a heart to hurt,

but no place to rest our aimless feet.

With the seeming endless miles we must exert,

A sanctuary, a brief surcease from suffering above all sweet.

Hands to toil and eyes to behold,

backs blighted by sun and rain.

What glory will we see perchance we grow old,

with our rudders and sails starved for a captain, mate, and coxswain?

Comfort at times seems harder than silver and gold to find,

but when it is found makes wormwood of ichor,

which means that even if it is only in the mind,

surely we must be destined to find some more?

Home for many must mean a physical space,

with roof and walls and shelter

but this in itself is an impermanent place,

briefly inhabited and razed to rubble thereafter.

Is it the feeling that is found within,

the security, lack of rancor and requisite euphoria,

the feelings left bare therein,

when bereft of all aggravation and hysteria?

Is it that seed of bliss that truly is home,

one that can be carried

to take and grow when one must inevitably roam

for sustenance when one is dejected and harried?

This is what I take it to mean.

I myself am liable to wander,

and from this seed some comfort I glean,

when my Camelots of stick and straw are blown asunder.