What is a home?
When you are not East or West,
Nor North or South.
Is it to be welcomed by the burdens of the stead, by the miseries of folk?
Is it the site of abandoned hopes and bald spirits, awash with solitude?
Is it the bounty of lies on lips of lovers lacerated by crushes of lust?
What is a home?
Does the bond of blood still make meaning?
Do we now drool like the zombies, about each other, yet suckers of blood,
Where in a home, does lay hope?
In the bossom of livid shiny thighs or heavy, hairy protruding chests?
Forgive my distaste at taste, but!
What is a home?
Seeing as we now dwell over nature,
To whom do we seek devoid answers to our stream of perversions.
Sudden Silence!
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