A Homeless Soul Poem by Mark Heathcote

I walk home past welcoming doorsteps
They littered my path.
Not one I'd call my own,
Mine was one I sometimes feared to tread.
Like some unwanted trespasser—
A poacher caught red-handed, my heart races.
My heart pounds near the foot of the door well.
One foot in the traps,
The other side turned out to run.
Is this where I abide, this my home, this is family? -
It's a welcoming bosom of love or not.
Is it any wonder then my soul feels homeless?