I always thought home was a place…
But is it truly?
Isn’t it all the roads not taken?
The ghosts of moments we never lived?
At times, I see myself in a quiet village
Wed to the farmer’s daughters
Growing old beneath silver skies
And at times, I succumb to the persistence of this illusion
At times I am too weak to fight,
Too weary to resist its pull.
But I know
There are no shortcuts to delight
With every step,
I am running from fear
Or towards desire
It’s the only choice we have
All else
Will vanish
Like dust in the wind
Leave a Reply