Home isn't made of walls and doors,
nor place with deeds or frequent chores,
but where the breeze blows evermore
with fields of green for one to explore.
A place where dirt becomes one's own floor
and the flora and fauna ceaselessly implore
you to take off into the unknown and explore
the habitat's belongings of species galore;
nothing it beholds can serve an eyesore.
A place where the water will endlessly pour
into crystal reserves with grass ridden shore
and plenty of things for one to adore;
the flowers and fish are the only decor
as the winged wildlife, above, will soar.
A place where sleep can release it's snore
and have it hidden by leaves that bore
a soft, gentle whisper many years before,
without interruption of raging furore
that continues on to this day, and more.
A place where it's noise does not abhor,
but resonates with one's very own core,
leaving the soul hoping for an encore.
Much farther away from the hectic uproar
than the sorry excuse for escape that lies indoors.
A place where the thoughts are not ravaged by war
on small scale or large; where one can ignore
the usual things that would make one feel sore
or fuming fierce rage out of every pore
only reconciled by a frustrated roar.
A place that bears the name "outdoors,"
away from all of the disgusting gore
of humanity riddled with bloodstained lore;
away from where minds can produce a score
of reasons to look at the world and deplore.