untitled
Houses are for birds and homes
are the places from which we run away.
We can paint them as many pretty colors as we want-
but there’s no guarantee the inhabitants will stay.
Spaces shrink, and the memories seep into the walls.
You can outgrow the structure and fill all the space-
move from one house or home to another,
and still feel stuck in the same place.
Home is a never ending reckless hope,
that pulls at our soul.
An unfulfilled promise
that eventually takes its toll.
3 thoughts on "untitled"
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“Home is a never ending reckless hope, / that pulls at our soul” Gorgeous!
Interesting how for some home is sweet and there is no other place—but home is also where the (broken) heart is—I appreciate your honesty and speaking for those of us still in search of that space in the soul that feels like home.
This poem turns a comforting concept into a source of profound existential weariness and that resonates with me. Thanks for sharing!