Mortal Mortar Poem, by Poeticdiplo, at My poetic side

What is a home

but the binding of mortal mortar?

where our hopes, our dreams, and our secrets

are baked into our very being.

It is the place to be self—

not king, or peacock, or mat;

the place to speak and be heard,

to be taught and to be trained.

It is the place to be doted on,

and to be disciplined.

For what is a home,

if not for the hearts

that warm the mortar with

our own mortality and love?

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