A Poem for Home by Marcus Jones

The songs of liberation the busker sings,
Doesn't mean a thing when you don't have a home
Home is a place within, so much more
Than steel, brick or tin

Home is my shelter, my healing place.
Where hot chocolate runs on tap,
And time is no longer watched
By prying eye or clutching hand.

Home is where I can lick my wounds,
Recover from the blasted heat and fires
Or winter's frost and broken dreams
Home is there, waiting in body as well as mind.

Turning the key and entering
Another world a private sanctuary,
This is what home means to me,
My hiding place, can you see me?

About Marcus:
When Marcus became homeless due to relationship difficulties, he was placed in hostel accommodation. He recently gained a place on a scholarship programme with Caer Las Cymru, where he is able to draw upon his personal experience to help support vulnerable adults, many of whom have experienced homelessness.