Poetry

For what is it, a home?
A shelter of worth,
Some place of warmth?
Or a wayside, some void,
A shared break from the chain,
Binding us till the end.


Could home be at the bottom
Of a bottle of warm drink?
A dark tavern perhaps,
The dark alley in back
A distance from the pain that haunts,
Like ghosts waiting on the pass.


Would we do without it?
A thing called home.
To travel or carry on
Never stopping,
To be snared by some fate
Or held to one place.


Can home be warm arms,
Waiting to embrace to the door?
A kiss, words of comfort
The reward of some labor,
Absent of meaning,
Just two lovers being.