Where is the Home?

The wild laughter,

The warmth of the fingertips.

The harsh in thy love.

The mystery behind the curled lips.

The troubling silences.

The comforting scent.

The similar clock.

Yet every thing has changed since I went .

The curtains are new.

The walls plastered white.

Was the off white disturbing?

Or was it too plain a sight?

The table from my room

Now within a strangers land.

My name probably scribbled off.

The doings of another hand.

The walls of my room

Ripped of my identity.
Marks of bygone photographs remain.

The only source of serenity.

There is a new clock that ticks.

A new time has dawned.

Its not my home anymore.

At least not the home I longed.

The breeze in them carry 

A similar scent.

Shut by the new window panes though.

Open my roads of torment.

My fingerprints on the wall

That once marked my land.

Remain hidden behind the blemish of paint.

And spots of food bland.

Suddenly the alarm clock rings.

Marking the end of my disastrous dream.

I can feel the sweat on my forehead

And the dryness of my throat from my tormented scream.

The sweet scent of home.

Calling me back.

Wanting my fingertips to touch the walls again.

Wanting my clothes in  my rack.

What do I call home now?

The one wherein my clothes lay.

Or the place trapping my soul?

What place is mine to say?