Where the Spirit Clears

A roof and walls can hold space,
A street, a town, a marked-out place.
The lexicon defines the door
Where families sleep on the floor,
Yet true foundations are not made
Of brick and wood that slowly fade.
For home is where the spirit clears,
Unbound by walls, unlit by fears.
It lives inside a quiet friend,
A desk where shaded thoughts transcend,
A classroom desk, a sudden view,
Or pages bound in gold and blue.
Though rooms are warm and velvet-lined,
It is the word that holds my mind.
Within the paper’s whispered scent
A luxury no coin has been spent,
I leave the noise of daily life,
To find a cure for restless strife.
Between the lines, I wander free,
And learn what real life ought to be.
No guiding hand, no voice to bind,
Just open skies inside the mind.
And from these depths where shadows fall,
I take the pen and capture all,
For in the ink my peace is found,
A quiet world, a holy ground.
To lose myself within the page,
Is freedom in a restless age.