Less of a Home

everybody tries to help
but they never ask
if they truly mind being homeless
wrinkled hands stretching over
the thin woolen blanket
the gray papered news burning
in the grappling orange wet fingers
of a makeshift fire
the gravel of this society digs
deep into the soft of their back
so they choose the earth
the bawdy clods of
a sweet dark beauty unrefined
perhaps they don't mind the cold
for their hearts are warmer
than the ones who live in homes
in those four walled boxes
perhaps they don't mind not
knowing the news
for they live in the moment
falling in love over and over
and over under a threshold of stars
perhaps they do not like
the code and bars of society
that lock them in
that tell them what normal is
for lying with the grass in their hair
and the earth as their bed
they feel less alone
and more alive
for homeless is not quite the right word
it is not that they are without a house
or only like to wander and roam
it is that they make the earth their home
and whoever said it is wrong
to live like the others don't?
for maybe it is the people
living in the cage of society
with their perfect red brick walls
and iron twisted gates
instead of grasslands
and wide open space
that actually have less of a home
than the homeless.




-anna sluder

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