We travel on in daily search for home.
We left the garden
in clothes of ambition and delusion.
Many houses filled our wants,
nurtured our desires,
fed our emotions
until, mortgaged beyond our compass,
we lie bankrupt in dusty ruins.
The gate to the garden is rusted -
lies and deceit shackling
the lock.
Home is where the heart is,
home is the heartbreak of lovers,
home is the hearth
where ashes glow.
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