Home is where the heart is,
But where does the heart go
When nothing remains. Where can it
Heave itself and sigh
After a long, drawn-out day?
Where does the heart go,
When nothing remains,
But the dusty floorboards
And the sickly light filtering though the window,
Where does it go, where does it go,
The heart hopes one day it’ll know
But for now it carries itself day after day
Across the dusty floorboards
Below the filtered sunlight,
Hoping one day, it’ll find a home.