Meaning of Home

A sanctuary from whatever calamities await outside, Be it whirlwinds, thunder, or an ever rising tide. And however vultures and eagles clash at death’s cove, Here we are, cradling the seldom heard dove. Without which life will be but an empty shell, Longing for the once abundant felt. Forged from the needles of amour, To be the white time’s armor. Of the white darkness that forever fell, With no birds to hear, or flowers to smell. And though these houses are many a dime, Within, one is unfazed by the alleged delusion of time But with empty rooms above the stairs, and empty chairs at the table, One will become ever more unstable. And thus we must create a time of savour, Rooting out the bitter flavor. Such that amidst the rise of the underworld and the punishments from the cosmos, One can still make the most Of the porch swings rocking, facing the street, Out of the many in the sublime summer heat As well as the slanted roofs once lined with snow That stand facing the harrowing stabs of cold. Of the many such assets among its twins Only one harbours joy within. Bear it the shape of a mound or a dome. That, for me, is the meaning of home.