Holy Ground

A huge cement block with dampened floors,

Broken window panes let the storms barge in,

A rusted celling fan moaning in sorrow,

And yet this home is where my heart lives.

Dysfunctional people with torrential tempers,

Utensils flung at each other in hostile rage,

Foul words of abuse hurled without any guilt,

And yet this home is where my heart lives.

Posters lining up my bedroom wall,

From Zeppelin to Queen to long dead poets,

An overflowing bookshelf of Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky, 

And this home is where my heart lives.

Silent dinner table except for clanking plates,

Sweat stained faces with smile lines around their lips,

Lame jokes cracked in the dead of the night,

And this home is where my heart still lives.

A group of atheists pretending to fit in,

With no idol in our mind to sing hymns and prayers,

The little thatched building is my holy ground,

And this home is where my heart will always live.