We house a soul
from time to time,
but often find our corridors
left empty.
No house can stay full forever,
lest those filled with zany dreamers
who seek thrill beyond their own
four walls.
Souls do travel
from time to time,
like old visitors who leave tips
on the breakfast table
of their favorite inn,
shortly before seeing themselves off.
Souls may stand
on our back porch while they torch
a cigarette
and quietly ponder on minute,
existential mysteries.
Souls may seek comfort
sprawled at our fireplace
or perched atop a kitchen bar stool,
seeking to feel the comforting
complacency of domesticity.
A soul may find
that cozy comforts are ever elusive,
exceptional to an existence in which
the most stupendous feel bewildered
and insignificant.
Alas, such is the nature of a soul:
from time to time,
a soul might not recognize
its own might.
A soul will fight to find a home
and seek comfort from its peers,
but a soul does not often hear
the invitation to call a place one's own. . .
Home.
We are not souls, we house them
and from time to time,
if we are lucky,
our houses open their doors for more
than just one stray soul
to invite himself in.
If your home can house many
it houses the greatest of things,
above all else:
Love.
Love is the soul.