There's a bruised cloud sitting above me.
aren't its glowing edges lovely?
Even though the sun smiles,
no raindrops for miles,
This cloud's staring, not blinking, not budging.
But I'm not lost, I'm not even alone
standing outside- in the cold- of my home
where not a soul stirs
save my echoing words,
'kept company by the sound of tires on the road.
See, I wanted the world to stop moving
till it parked, dropped me off in a state of not doing.
Coming home's gotten hard,
I've outgrown this backyard,
So my feet weep and itch to keep cruising.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:24 PM UTC
There's a bruised cloud sitting above me.
aren't its glowing edges lovely?
Even though the sun smiles,
no raindrops for miles,
This cloud's staring, not blinking, not budging.
But I'm not lost, I'm not even alone
standing outside- in the cold- of my home
where not a soul stirs
save my echoing words,
'kept company by the sound of tires on the road.
See, I wanted the world to stop moving
till it parked, dropped me off in a state of not doing.
Coming home's gotten hard,
I've outgrown this backyard,
So my feet weep and itch to keep cruising.
I wrote this poem upon the tenth day of having returned from a semester abroad in Carmarthen Wales, where part of me still lives.