Nomad

 

This is my verse

with its fog

and footprints in the past

This is my earth

my window to the rain

with words made out of footmarks

and ink.

 

I write tentatively now,

going back and forth in syllables

This is where I lost my way

You came sometimes, with

the break of dawn 

floating around my eyelashes

until my nights traveled far.

 

It’s hard to say these things

There is no rhythm, no song

It’s somewhat like coming home from a funeral.

To stand next to the window

watching fireflies trying to make sense

of darkness.

I have come to tell you that 

I am both empty and content,

to have lost touch with 

the consonants and the vowels 

that made the sea.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i love this song...you have a unique voice, which is the foundation of good poetry, and the tonality of worthy music...i've been back now a dozen times to this page...

[Corset]

This filled me with such sadness, you have that way about writing that makes what you are feeling crystal clear, as if your heart ache belongs to each of us, experienced like a caress of such resigned agony. It is not only beautiful but it is also tangible, like the smell of flowers or the hum of wings.

[symmetryAsymmetry]

Masterful! You have said things which have been said in the past but the imagery and the subtle twisting of words and the tender flavor...what a beautiful feeling reading this gives..too good..

[Emily B]

the words took my breath away

[Abhra]

Thank you Emily for your kind words.
Abhra