I thought that finding home would mean
A quiet heart, a gentler scene.
That once my wandering steps were done,
The ache would fade, the peace would come.

And yet within these sacred walls,
Where golden light through silence falls,
There lingers still a tender strain,
A soft and ever-present pain.

For home, it seems, can still feel wide
When something in you stands aside.
When warmth is near, but not your own,
And crowded halls still leave you lone.

I walk where hearthfires brightly bloom,
Yet carry with me winter's gloom.
I stand among familiar grace,
And still feel slightly out of place.

No harsh word passed, no open slight,
No shadow cast by wrong or spite,
And yet the heart can somehow know
The quiet ache of standing so--

Near enough to see the flame,
Too far to feel it quite the same.
As if I hover at the edge
Of something whole beyond my reach.

So I move on with careful tread,
With solemn thoughts and bowing head.
And though I love this home I've found,
There are days sorrow still walks round.

Perhaps this season soon will fade.
Perhaps these wounds will soften, frayed.
But for now, I bear this quiet truth:
Even in home, the heart knows ruth.

And still I stay. And still I stand.
Still faithful to this sacred land.
Though something in me grieves unseen,
And life is not what it had seemed.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Valnuary, in the year 1002 AF.