"I Was Homeless Once"
I was homeless once—
not metaphor, but pavement,
the night’s breath stiff with diesel,
a borrowed coat that never quite closed.
The city’s lights were not for me,
they glittered for windows I could not enter,
for tables where bread was broken
without my name.
I learned the grammar of benches,
the syntax of doorways,
the long pause of hunger
that makes even silence ache.
And still, the body endures—
it finds a corner,
it waits for dawn,
it bargains with cold.
But there is another exile—
homeless in a palace without you.
Marble floors echo louder than alleys,
chandeliers mock with their excess of light.
Every room is furnished,
yet emptier than a street at 3 a.m.
The bed is wide,
but no voice answers the turning.
This homelessness of heart
is less spoken of,
yet more corrosive:
to be roofed, clothed, fed—
and still unsheltered.
I was homeless once,
and I survived.
But I would not wish
the palace-emptiness on anyone.
Better the cold stone
than the warm room
where no one waits.
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Comments1
This poem speaks with words that echo off barren walls, it touches cold stone hearts and shivers in a lonely night of abandon. It gathers a thin blanket of self around a shivering body and aches from bone against hard ground. I can hear the wind of loneliness whistling through dark allies of memory looking in on lit windows of the past. It is stark and empty with no destination and the hopeless resolve to live one moment to the next. A nicely crafted piece Cryptic
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