Home
by Odin Roark

So often said: Home is where you make it.
Yet, how amorphous we’ve made this word,
From a Bric-à-brac sentiment,
To a cave in the mountains of the Middle East.

Wherever the word,
The image of roots,
Of foundation,
Of longing for anywhere safe,
Absorbs the weary mind of modern man.
There exists the shadow of reality,
That place most accept not of,
That realm of belonging
That knows no geographical spot on a map,
No neighborhood landmark of childhood,
No definitive place of beginnings.

Yet…

That place within,
Where when all else fails,
When landlord,
Mortgage bank,
Or friend/relative says: Time’s up,
Such becomes the special place of epiphanies.

Some may say such is fantasy.
Others might say “within” is all one needs,
That sanctuary where the “all” is.

Still…

Many will hold such thoughts are those of madmen,
Knowing not why the madness of truth remains so sublime
In the castle of honesty’s acceptance.