It’s hard for me to fathom that this still, quiet town
was once my home. No home now, not the
clean sidewalks, clipped lawns, suburban scrawls.
So it seems indecent & pointless to remain here
while my mind is still across the green ocean
in smoky villages, muddied tents, and bloodcurdling
silences between the raining bullets.
So I wander from this New England corner,
in search of sirens.
While I stay, I only stagnate, rust in old
wounds & dust in withered scars.
My legs ache to march again, but not away,
towards.
Because over there, men meant more, yet they
were spent as though they were less.
Over there, I meant not just more, but I
“meant”, period.
I had a place and a purpose,
once.
Silences mean less here without the threat of
breaking.
Nights mean less with the guarantee of
morning.
I mean less without a pack to carry.
So I’m moving on, to see more of this
terrible, wonderful world,
to seek—something, ANYTHING,
while I still have hope.
The train leaves today. I have my ticket…
my old boots & my pack,
and my purpose:
“to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”