Ride back home

It’s almost here, just round the corner. Or perhaps it’s the figment of my not-so-creative imagination.

Bodies, hundreds of them, make their way home. The same old roads, the same old people… really, the same old routine, done over and over again. The sky blankets us all — the hungry, the weary, the cold, the fortunate… Stars pop up, like guardians in case one of us loses our sight or perhaps the very fragile mind.

If I was the sea shore,
I would demand:
“Why should I bear the cold embrace all day long?”

If I was the dirt,
I would swallow to be never seen again,
things that were poked and ripped from me every day.

But then, I am none of the above.
I have so many questions, the answers to them, I will never have.

And so I travel the road, the same one I will take even the next day; not knowing but always wondering when the route will finally change.


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