The Weary Traveller

hours lost in front
of black and green
letters and symbols
and spaces;
garments picked
and packed in a frenzy
while slowly striding
through strange
faces and lines;
thoughts mixed with
unfamiliar pitter-patters
of the heart
and soul;
waiting and puffing
for a seemingly endless
disarray of feet,
handles, boxes,
and elbows;
wheels running towards
familiar names
and signs
lost beyond time;
finally halting
at a wooden shrine
of memories
and generations
intertwined.
i now can’t help wonder
if i belong,
or am just
a mist
that comes
and goes;
welcomed and
afterwards
easily
forgotten.

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