What I call my Home

Home is not a building made of brick. Nor just a door that swings real slick. It's where your heart gets comfort, soft and quick. Where love resides, a strong and steady fringe. It's laughter echoing in a familiar room and not cringe. The smell of baking, or a cozy chair. A place to shed your worries and groom your hair. And know that you are safe beyond compare. It's memories woven bright and deep, but not in despair. The first steps taken, whispered words you knew. A promise that your dearest secrets are kept by a few. A place where you can simply be, and be true. For home’s the feeling, deep within you. That even when you wander far, wide, and through. A part of you remains fastened tight like glue. A loving haven, where your heart can be in a dome. A place where you can call your home. A place where you can always rome. That is what I call my home.