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Home

is not the physical embodiment
you co-habit with people
who will end up, every one,
leaving you at one point or another, but
where you love
where you feel
where you can be yourself

where life happens
in your instinctive world,
the wider world ignores
or your distracted and irresolute selves
have trouble holding on.
It's at odds with ambition and achievements,
being as it is a replica

of your original habitat ,no matter
if imperfect ,still is a haven
from the chaos outside.
It's where you grow up
wanting to leave and grow old,
wanting to come back, so nostalgic
is it ,to die at home ,at last.

Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
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