Ramblin' Man
Where is it you call home?
POETRY
Perhaps I am a ramblin’ man.
At least, that’s what I’m told.
Perhaps they’re right and at first sight,
It seems I’m always on the road.
My calendar is in miles, not months,
With highways in between.
Lonely days are small speed bumps,
Old friends, the songs I sing.
And when you’re out there burning fuel,
Leaving rubber on that road,
Sometimes, a six-string tune will ask,
Where is it you call home?
You see, a rambler’s curse is this small lie,
That reminds him every night,
He’s all alone, forgotten,
Getting too good at goodbye.
Perhaps I am a ramblin’ man,
But that doesn’t mean I’m alone,
I've wandered around, and I have found,
Jesus is my home.
