The grouse flies worlds away
From where the hyacinths calmly sway
To the symphony stirred from whispered wind
A fossil I am to you
Despite the partition of age
Your so much like I was back when I was
Not a fallen angel, where poor decisions had
Slipped their cursors upon my screen,
When time was but an ever-growing play, without curtains, without actors on the stage. Just a play
Pursuing a question I’ve yet to find
Perusing the shelves as I dig
Through countless words I cannot read
But love the way they sound when spoke
Its probably something ridiculous or damaged wisdom well rehearsed-
Yet when I hear each syllable roll from the tongue
I think of hydrangeas’, pastries and seduction
Vacuums, race along the route I take
Past the small café I’d always wanted to try
As it looks so lovely each time my feet scuttle by
Yet, I’m never thirsty then
I’ve been here a week, perhaps 10 days,
I’d lost track after the third,
As it’s hard to determine the patience of each hour,
When you’re only speaking aloud in the warmth of the shower’s flow
Nobody knows me. Nobody cares to approach
No one seems aware even. It’s as if they’re life is in slow motion, yet they are too busy to adjust the speed. I’ve made a few attempts, but quickly they creak their necks, as a dog would do, when they listen, wanting to understand yet barriers born determine the breadth of this experience. Quickly the separation occurs, with a polite nod and perhaps a smile. I thought everyone, everywhere spoke English, I thought this little book would allow me the privilege of making that first foot forward routine, yet I guess just trying is not always enough, and it must be hard to try having a conversation with someone that’s consistently thumbing through his pages, looking for that perfect word, ignorant that some words change effect when paired with others and at what point in the phrase or sentencing you choose to place them in. It must be frustrating; I know it is for me.
But despite the isolation one often feels, as he or she wander about, by themselves in a crowded spot, you know, it’s amazing to watch what you can see, to understand without understanding, to believe, because it’s everywhere, a living time capsule-breathing, each breath telling its own tale, history lives in every thing.
And then I turned a corner I’d yet to see
A dark alley, tumbling with trash, lined with sleeping feet, clothed in wares I’d burn.
Run I did not, I paused as long as I could stomach the stench, why?
Simple answer really. It was the first time a semblance of home resonated.
But upon the edge of this external corridor, I reached a place I’d often been, just never knew this possibility existed, an alleyway, invisible yet in clearest view.
This was when I first saw you. And I knew. Home had found me.