Long day of being out and about,
There is just one thing I'd like to do
Reach home, far away from the crowd
Where the memories remain, yet I am new.
Ting tong
The doorbell of my house mocks me
A distant parcel of courtesy
The doorway waits for my quiet retreat,
Undo my shoes like muscle memory.
Scent feels new yet bizarrely foreign.
My coat rests itself on the couch.
Passing the plant I'd long forgotten,
Against the plastic drawer it lay slouched.
Lights on, were the only sign of presence
Glass on the table, left alone
The bed frame grins at my worn essence
The radio silent like echoes hum a monotone.
The hands that chased finishing emails,
Forgetting life, traded an array of means.
Ticking time missing details,
Voices changed and faded to steam.
And in these rooms that once felt heard,
Flew the mystic of a crying herd.
Embracing change yet forgetting the familiar,
Till my own impression became unclear.
Mar 14
Mar 14, 2026 at 6:21 AM UTC
Long day of being out and about,
There is just one thing I'd like to do
Reach home, far away from the crowd
Where the memories remain, yet I am new.
Ting tong
The doorbell of my house mocks me
A distant parcel of courtesy
The doorway waits for my quiet retreat,
Undo my shoes like muscle memory.
Scent feels new yet bizarrely foreign.
My coat rests itself on the couch.
Passing the plant I'd long forgotten,
Against the plastic drawer it lay slouched.
Lights on, were the only sign of presence
Glass on the table, left alone
The bed frame grins at my worn essence
The radio silent like echoes hum a monotone.
The hands that chased finishing emails,
Forgetting life, traded an array of means.
Ticking time missing details,
Voices changed and faded to steam.
And in these rooms that once felt heard,
Flew the mystic of a crying herd.
Embracing change yet forgetting the familiar,
Till my own impression became unclear.
In the pursuit of distant goals it is often that we overlook the quiet parts of life that once defined us. This poem explores the unsettling feeling of returning to something meant to feel familiar, only to realize that neglect and time have made it strangely foreign. Through ordinary objects and silent rooms, it reflects the quiet guilt of having chased ambition so intensely that the essence of home and perhaps even the self begins to fade.Thankyou for taking the time to read this piece.- Hazel_Dusk ©
