Moving

I boxed up my things,

just objects I own.

But my heart still clings

to that which is known.

My home has no roots,

I’ve never known peace.

My never stilled boots

don’t seem to grasp “cease”.

I’m tired of moving,

of being shook up.

I’m tired of proving

I’m still just a pup.

I’m still starting out,

that what they all say.

My roots will soon sprout

I’ll see it, someday.

But as of right now

my sorrow is deep.

I’m still forced to bow

to a changing wind’s sweep.

I boxed up my things,

’cause I won’t be here long.

I don’t dream of kings,

Just a place to belong.

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