Home is not a building of wood or stone.
We often question our own existence.
Spending a
lifetime looking for what we already have,
filling our pockets with possessions,
like a
hamster stuffing its cheeks.
Our wealth doesn't come to us in things that we inevitably leave behind,
a house filled with minutia.
I know that I am as rich as any man has ever been.
My reason for being sits now to my left,
on a sun-drenched wall, in an unfamiliar town,
watching the passing crowd.
There, or anywhere, with my family, I am home.
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