SAM TUMBLIN

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.

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