Old poem

18 Mar

I came across a book of my poetry the other day, dusted it off, thought about how it’s been ages since I added anything new in there, then cast it aside.

Tonight I took a look. It’s funny how you see far more meaning in words scrawled out years ago – your mind automatically gives the words a setting, some characters, words unwritten come to life and bam you’re back in 2010 feeling forlorn reaching for the journal…

Since when did home become a place you get a train through?
The long journey started there
You thought you knew the direction of the tracks
How to get there
And the way back
Only to find this messy network of journeys
Some you shouldn’t have made
Some you never quite returned from
Most routine. The best waylaid.
Perhaps at some junction I was supposed to alight
Call that place home, stay put, write.
Stop searching and define where I’ve been heading all this time
But to me that just sounds like the end of the line.


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