Home is not a place at all,
But rather the love trapped between its walls.
The warmth of a mother’s affection for her child,
The staircase where the toddler learned to crawl and climb.
The lingering aroma of tea that spreads,
The echoes of laughter of people wed.
The exquisite photograph of a family in its prime absurdity,
Where love stays for an eternity and more.
The noise of the television set at night,
And the spooky stories which used to stir up fright.
It is the people inside who willingly accept our flaws,
Or perhaps the adorable beasts with puny paws.
Home is where we come to relax,
It is the intentions of those pure souls who coax.
The rooms where we hid as kids,
The games we played on little grids.
The spots where we feel most at ease,
As we dance around, mingle and tease.
For it is a house which is made of bricks and beams,
Which eventually turns into a home with the loving people full of dreams.