A soul without a sanctuary.

I have no special place,
a ghost without a home.
A vagabond, a wanderer,
a lost soul made to roam.
No solace under a great oak tree,
no freedom among the radiant wildflowers.
I have a broken mirror,
an empty hallway,
a vacant lot where I stand,
steam sizzling off busted black concrete,
burning flat feet
and urging them on.
Sanctuary is the broken air in my lungs,
the tired treading of restless feet.
Sanctuary is not buried or plotted,
but ashen, blackened, and scattered to the winds