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.
