Its not the trains, cars
and planes.
Those are 'time earned' receipts.
And are only fit for odors of the feet,
and wearying,
as a whole.
Leaving home tears, every time;
waving at the those I precede, as they
station behind.
My back stays sweaty,
my pockets: empty.
Confused by an unaffixed passage of hours,
I often wonder, Who's my mind?
and where did the 'I', I know, go?
My heights look down on
the clouds!
but the depths grab listless by the hand and
take a stroll.
I don't recognize the crowds.
the Hellos or Goodbyes.
My clothes seem not to match,
and to my shoes Use, has been most unkind.
The befriended hat, discolors,
loved by sun and dirt.
My handkerchief a blithe display
just visible from under my shirt.
Then, with tiresome aches,
a new land introduces me
to its beloved scribes, writers,
poets and someones,
and we shake hands.
Inspired,
beatified,
within;
I am recalled to clarity,
and why I have traveled
so far.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 6:39 PM UTC
Its not the trains, cars
and planes.
Those are 'time earned' receipts.
And are only fit for odors of the feet,
and wearying,
as a whole.
Leaving home tears, every time;
waving at the those I precede, as they
station behind.
My back stays sweaty,
my pockets: empty.
Confused by an unaffixed passage of hours,
I often wonder, Who's my mind?
and where did the 'I', I know, go?
My heights look down on
the clouds!
but the depths grab listless by the hand and
take a stroll.
I don't recognize the crowds.
the Hellos or Goodbyes.
My clothes seem not to match,
and to my shoes Use, has been most unkind.
The befriended hat, discolors,
loved by sun and dirt.
My handkerchief a blithe display
just visible from under my shirt.
Then, with tiresome aches,
a new land introduces me
to its beloved scribes, writers,
poets and someones,
and we shake hands.
Inspired,
beatified,
within;
I am recalled to clarity,
and why I have traveled
so far.
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