A house is a home when somebody loves it.
So what is it, I wonder, when somebody hates it?
A hovel, a prison, a financial strain
With no sense of warmth and an aura of pain
That seeps into your bones, making every one ache,
Coils around your heart like a venomous snake.
Injecting its darkness to kill off the light,
Wrong choices are made when you used to make right.
But everyone suffers as you become rotten
And all happy memories conveniently forgotten
Sit now in the garage in boxes stacked high,
Neglected, unwanted but then, by and by,
The house that is home, the one that is new,
Feels suddenly lonely and awfully blue.
You stop and you look,
You espy a book.
The one, the only book on the shelf
Is sitting there, lonesome, all by itself.
Your eye wanders thoughtfully to not one box but three.
Then you look at the bookshelf and finally see.
It’s not all about buildings and auras and aches.
It has nothing to do with metaphorical snakes.
When you take a step back,
When you take in what you lack,
You see it as plain as the quizzical looks
That what makes a home is a shelf load of books.