It is not about finding a home;
It is realising that home has been
Here all along, hidden behind
The life I am living.

In being alone, I am not alone.
There are others who get to choose
The side of the table on which they sit.

Where you might see emptiness, I see
Space; space I can fill if I want to
But no longer have to, an end to
The everlasting need to choose and
The beginning of choice.

Home is the land of opportunity,
It seems. Perhaps this is the knowledge
For which I have hungered; the word
For which my pen has been searching
On its roundabout route; the understanding
Of that elusive harmony
Of head and heart.

Surrounded by noise, I am becoming
The oasis of calm that I need:
The well ordered base from which
I can adventure, but where
I am always happy to find myself
At the end of the day.

03/17/2016

Posted on 05/07/2016
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