A Place Called Home

Well, here is the poem that this is named for, how boring, how sad.


I looked, for her, her of the golden hair
But found naught at all and so burdened once more
With the thought of her. Traveling alone,
I visited places, always following, always picking up hidden breadcrumbs,
Lured away by a silent siren, never finding peace.

I stopped, only once, at a place called Home
By an elderly chap named Jones. I settled, only once,
For a brief time, and wondered about my life’s’ choosing;
The perpetual road, the tireless search, the constant need of company.
I stopped at a place called Home, and wondered about my own.

I observed the place called Home, by a clever man named Jones,
And admired the stubborn refusal to die, alone, and surrounded by nothing.
The barn freshly painted, the walkway weeded, the fence mended,
All by a man named Jones, a man thought to live alone,
But Jones found friends in memory, and was content with Home.

Outside of Home, life went on, oblivious of a man named Jones.
Wars raged, babies were born, and no one cared for a man named Jones.
I lived with Jones, in a place called Home,
Only for a short time, but quickly grew tired,
Of a place called Home, and so I left.

Back to the tireless search for her of the golden head,
Never stopping, but I often thought back
To a man named Jones, who lived at Home.
Pity filled my heart, and loathing,
For he had no obligations, he was looked for by no one.

I’d stop to rest and catch some sleep,
Always haunted by a man called Jones. It wasn’t my life, it was his,
And so, malcontent, I wandered, always looking, never halting,
Alone by myself, and dim memories. I’d always be jealous of Jones,
Of him without a care in the world, living in a place called Home.



Nobody has looked at this, kinda depressing, so I think I'm gonna tell my friends about this, but you know, all hushlike, in passing. Pretty sneaky, huh?