My home is not where my heart is
I have no home at all
I have a box made out of bricks
I have some ceilings and some walls
I have curtains, I have windows
I have carpets on some floors
I have tables, I have chairs
I have handles on some doors

But I don't have any comfort
there is a lack of ease
A ''home'' is one that's caring
with warmth against a breeze

I am alone in my box of bricks
with the distant sound of pain
with the ghostly sound of memories
and the drumming beat of rain

I am grateful for these things
but it's a house, and nothing more
For if there is no love to fill it
then it's not a home at all