"Home Is Where The Art Is"
One's home is a complex notion,
whether one is at home or not.
Can a home follow one's constant motion,
or is it anchored in one spot?
Is a home where the heart is, or,
is a home where one rests their head?
Can one have two homes, three, or more,
or does one's home have to house their bed?
If one lives abroad is their home the world,
or is it the hotel, the suite or plane?
Is it the house from which they long ago hurled,
and, at that point, is one's travels in vain?
Perhaps one lives where they were raised,
but finds more solitude in some him or her.
Is home to them then where their parents praised
or in the arms of the person they prefer?
Is a home where one's majority of time is spent,
if so, is the cell to a prisoner that prisoner's home?
By that calculation, after all the years that went,
Most of our homes would be over a desk or tome.
I look around and see less homes than houses.
If you have the ladder, the former with it does not come.
Just as I do, I see less love than spouses.
As with the houses, one can be bought, the other must become.
It is this irony that causes me to question so.
Is the idea of a home that of a fleeting one?
Excuse my pessimistic manner of speaking though,
From a broken home I do come,
but of a broken family I am no son.
Can one be alone is one's home,
or must one have a crowd?
And do we only ever have one place,
that we can call a home aloud?
I have a family and I have true love,
but for a home I still do look.
When or how or if or what of,
are but answers only found in a book.
So my book I continue to search and write,
and it's page's I slowly fill.
But it's up to me to turn them in spite.
of the emptiness that haunts me still.
written by jeff campagna