Frost said
Home is the place where
When you go there
They have to take you in.
But what if there’s no place to go home to?
What if there’s nowhere that provokes
A sense of sight, or sound, or smell
Or taste or feeling
That evokes a memory?
You are cut adrift,
A piece of flotsam
Going where the current takes you.
The tide runs out,
The current ebbs and flows
Yet never ceases.
And you . . .
A piece of driftwood,
Lacking even the semblance of design
That might inspire a sculptural creation,
End in a vortex.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Frost said
Home is the place where
When you go there
They have to take you in.
But what if there’s no place to go home to?
What if there’s nowhere that provokes
A sense of sight, or sound, or smell
Or taste or feeling
That evokes a memory?
You are cut adrift,
A piece of flotsam
Going where the current takes you.
The tide runs out,
The current ebbs and flows
Yet never ceases.
And you . . .
A piece of driftwood,
Lacking even the semblance of design
That might inspire a sculptural creation,
End in a vortex.
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