Where I Call Home

Where I Call Home
By Sam Tumblin

What do I really call home,
Endless paths beneath the dome.
One stop here,
Many pauses disappear.

Faces faded like dying flame,
Different towns but all the same.
I carried sorrow carved in bone,
A drifting soul forever lone.

Then I learned through life’s cruel tome,
The only place I truly call home
Is beside silence overgrown—
Next to the statued gnome.

• Music
• poetry
• Spoken Word Podcast
• Thought Of The Day

• November’s Gentle Memories
• The Canvas and I Are One
• What Is Seven?
• After Emancipation, We Still Live in the Dark
• The Heart’s Chalice

• November 2026
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• December 2022
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• January 2022
• December 2021
• November 2021
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• July 2021

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