by Richard Vince

The door is closed to the mist
The rain kicks up from the
Branches, pavements and roofs
Of the indistinct town that
Slumbers fitfully in the spring night air.

Temperatures fall slowly;
The Sun is biding his time for us,
Revealing himself to somewhere else.

We are miles away from that
Which we know, cocooned in
New mysteries our minds create
As night time playgrounds for
Minds constrained by day.
And we are miles away from
Those who we know, even though
We may witness vague reflections
Of them in the mirrors of our minds.

Sometime soon, we will return
From fantasy to reality, and
We will believe we know
The difference, even though they
Merely mirror one another.
For we are visiting a world
So far removed from that
To which we are accustomed
That we try to add elements
Of familiarity in the name
Of comfort.

And when the war is over,
We will return to what
We hope is still home;
A place with a hole that
We can still fill, even though
We have grown into
Elsewhere for a time.


Posted on 04/05/2005
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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