The Home

The home is not a place,
in which I dwell.
Only lost memories,
with no one to tell,
about the love
which lived here,
not long ago.
The love of another,
is better than nails,
to hold a home together,
something I can no longer do.
All of life's possessions,
mean so little to me.
They are the memories,
forgotten. Now gone
and will soon go away,
lost from the mind
of she, who brought love
to this place of emptiness,
once was our home.