Homeless

Home is where the heart is,
so I am homeless.
My heart is wandering somewhere,
lost in the dark.
It's crippled,
blind,
and broken,
but it keeps wandering,
waiting for the next light to come along,
point it in the right direction,
and then move on.

It's terrified of the dark times,
when nothing it feels under its feet is right.
When it feels as if glass is piercing
the soles and blisters form on the feet.
It relishes the light times,
the times that make it weak.
The soles hardened by glass are softened by soil,
the blisters that had formed fading.
The light makes you weak,
gives you a false spark.
Home is where the heart is,
so I guess I'll keep my address in the dark.