there is no home for us,
only the presence of a fleeting feeling
forever sewn in airplane seatbelts
painted on windows of moving cars
present in vacant seats of trains

instead of warm welcoming arms
there are only faint figures blurring
as we speed away
only blank faces remain in restless crowds
and their cold empty stares

absent gentle reminders,
voices are blaring on the intercom
dictating where and when to go
as if leaving is the easiest task
at least it is assumed as

I have gone a hundred pages deep
perpetually filling silences with scribbles
I have leafed through many paper cuts and stories
futile attempts to overpower the will to quit
it is nothing but a wild goose chase

we are told to watch out for incoming headlights
shut the door as we step inside
settle safely in temporary comfort
oblivious to what we leave behind
never regretting what we could not lose
-W.