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Robert L. Martin

Home

Home
 
On the ground but yet still floating
Living in a dream of open spaces
Home is a nomadic romp through time
Of moving feet and fresh environs
 
Home is a casket for the expired traveler
With compassionate eyes and tender hands
An open net to catch the lost and weary
A mother chasing after her little boy
 
An easy prison where life is a velvet cushion
Where dreams stay inside in warm rooms
And adventure floats out into a dark maze
Plodding through swamps and thickets
 
What nature is, is what my home’s to be
Volcanoes talking and oceans ranting
I live for the thrill of moving places
Where my raging blood surges like a lunatic
 
Come home my baby, my poor lost baby
Please don’t move away from what is you
Mamma’s heart is your home, your safe harbor
Your blood flows from her anxious veins
Home is what you can’t forget
Come home to where the walls are kind
Come home and sit with her
Come home, little boy

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Cory Garcia
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