My house isn’t a home.

My house is a building with four walls.

Filled with people i care for,

Hairs left from the dog, reminding us of his love.

There’s walls of all colours, and carpet floors.

A garden for the dog to explore.

But my house isn’t my home.

My home is somewhere not to far.

Through a field, not to long.

Down a path where leaves grow old.

Past the dark gates, a long twisty road.

My home doesn’t have four walls, nor dog hairs left.

No, my homes engraved in all gold letters.

It reads his name though it isn’t much.

A single piece of stone. Flowers around.

A place of no judgment.

Just silence and peace.

My home is in the sky.

Behind the orange and pinks.

Behind the bright blues,

Past the clouds, and all the horizons.

My homes not a house,

For mine never feels whole.

To be home is to feel no judgment nor pain.

The only way I know to feel that,

Is it the grave.