Going Home

Going Home

 

The old buildings stand empty or run-down,

Their ancient facades frowned down upon

By glittering metal and towering modern monstrosities.

The city of my past slowly degenerating at the feet of the new millennium.

 

I walk through the city in a fog of depression;

A stranger in my hometown.

Nine years have past us by.

The city I knew is going,

Slowly being eaten by the cold and merciless push of progress.

 

A building here and there remain unscathed

But the parasitic new development surrounds them all.

Some of the changes give me comfort;

But most of them make me shrivel up just a little more inside.

Some of the things that remain

Should have gone

And some of the things that have gone

I wish had remained.

 

There was once a tall building, over there;

A terrible eyesore; never fixed, always ignored.

Someone had once abseiled over the roof’s edge

And written in giant black letters on it’s bared bones: “This Is Not Art”.

 

It’s gone now, and good riddance, I suppose,

But a part of my heart went, “Aww, man”

When I saw that it was gone

And had been replaced by a shining new skyscraper that my heart doesn’t recognise.

 

My parents’ old shop sits boarded up and destitute.

The old taverns I frequented are either gone

Or I don’t recognise them or their live bands.

I need to recognise their live bands, people.

 

I didn’t know why it was depressing me,

Until I saw a young couple, who were walking,

Stop, turn, talk and embrace and then keep walking

And I suddenly realised that my youth was gone.

 

I realised that those buildings,

Like the years that they signified,

Have been swept away by time

And I have not returned to the same place at all.

 

It was supposed to wait for me to come back.

It was supposed to remain the same.

I missed it in my heart, where it was always home

I loved it, remembered it, held it gently in the folds of my love

And the faithless wench has forgotten me completely and moved on without me…

 

Aww, man...

Author's Note

This is me bleeding onto paper... sigh...sob... Ha. It's not a poem in any real literary sense, just some thoughts.

Reviews

The wench may be moving on, but your not at all forgotten. We've missed you!