The Most Misfortuned
How my heart mourns
for those without a home.
Those with no place to go
on a rainy autumn night.
What do they do when
it begins to snow?
For they have no place
in which they can make
a scalding cup of cocoa
with marshmallows giving
into the pressure
of becoming one with the
dark cream.
They must settle for
the lullaby of a
roaring stomach,
angry it hasn’t been
fed in two weeks.
Where do they go
when in need of a
fuzzy blanket
and somewhere to
rest their head?
Their pillow
is the cold cement,
and their blanket
is the bone chilling
air.
How my heart envies
those who never wander.
Those who never question if
their home will remain in place
after a long day of work.
What do they do every night?
For they never have to worry
about growing cold from
the torturous feeling
the emptiness of having
no place to live provides.
They can be alleviated
by having warm water
run over their back
and wash away
their fears.
How do they
ever manage
to tear themselves
away from the
comfort having a stable
home provides?
How my heart relates
to those who are confused,
for I too once did not
understand.
For a home is never
a house in which you live,
it is the person that you share
your life with.
And how my heart laments
For those who believe having
a house makes them superior,
for they are the most
misfortuned.
-savvy.b