A Question on Home

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I have found
nothing
in all my travels,
in all my stability,
nothing,
that feels like
a piece of home
worth planting;
Only parts
of a brickwork
blocking me
even further
from the
ignorance
of my past
where
home is feeling,
but no,
home is not a feeling,
for feelings are fleeting;
Home instead
is a story
gathered by memories,
fought by disease,
won by the salt
that comes
from laughter
and pain
mixing together
to create
a new frame
only to be broken
but built once more.
Is home the constant
destruction of comfort
in order to realize
the comfort in chaos?

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