Some say that a home

is where you find your heart. Others say no,

home is the place you were born and raised.

While the free, wild wanderer might say the road

is the hallway as their home is the world.

Or maybe “at home” is anywhere you’re comfortable.

Often, it seems, homes aren’t so much comfortable

as they are familiar. Not every home

has a white picket fence or a garden that brings worlds

of praise. Despite popular culture there is no

one way a home must be, nor one road

people must follow for their status to be raised.

At a family reunion glasses are raised.

A sports team cheers–all hands in. They’re comfortable,

in communion with each other. Perhaps it is not a road

that leads there, but the heart, and home

is rather a feeling than a place. Surely there is no

feeling like it in the world.

For those who adventure out into the world,

and those who prefer the familiarity of how they were raised,

home may not be the same. What you know,

afterall, determines with what you are comfortable.

To each their own, and each their own home

As they choose their own road.

Then straight the path, or do these roads

converge to reveal one deep, world-wide

sense of the word? Perhaps to be home

is the same after all, not roots from which we’re raised

but that to which we ascend, beyond worldly comfort

that we now know.

Whatever it is, for many, unknown

are the blessings of home to those lost on the road.

I wish peace, hope, swift aid, and comfort

find them. That they no longer be neglected by the world,

that an outstretched hand would raise

them up, and help them find a home.

To me, home is more than comfort or where I

was raised. It’s the sanctity of knowing I have

A place in the world as I journey the road of life.