Poem, Sagas

In home.

It is blood that makes it so. The hearth kept warm, the house kept busy.

It is all that has been done before which gives one what they have.

From the food on the table to the very life one holds, to the company kept and safety of sleeping under a familiar roof.

It all comes from blood.

Without that bond, there is no base on which to build.

As the house built upon a shifting sand, as a bed placed where the tide has left, all else is but a moment.

A moment without a bind like kin or folk. A moment ever fleeting, awaiting its chance in the shadows to strike and unmake what was.

 

 

A prompt response.

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