I packed my life in paper and string, 

Left the place of my beginning. 

Its windows watched as I walked away, 

Whispering promises they couldn't say. 

 

But in my quest for skies unknown, 

The warmth of the hearth became a stone. 

Each door I passed, a hollow sound, 

No roots, no anchor to be found. 

 

The world stretched out, its arms so vast, 

But every welcome felt miscast. 

Each bed was soft, each roof secure, 

Yet the echo inside me stayed unsure. 

 

Is home a memory, a state of mind? 

A fleeting thing I can’t seem to find? 

I paint new walls, I light new flames, 

But the feeling never quite remains. 

 

I search for soil to take my feet, 

A steady pulse, a rhythm sweet. 

Yet every road feels slightly wrong, 

A misplaced chord in an endless song. 

 

Perhaps the secret is letting it go— 

That home’s not a place but the seeds you sow. 

And though I wander far and wide, 

The ghost of home walks by my side. 

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