The Journey

The train ploughs on – with every passing mile,
I’m further from my home, my rock, my love.
I glance at passing trees and fields and houses,
And think of my home with a fleeting smile.

These blurs of others’ homes mean nothing to me
And act as cruel reminders of my own
But somewhere, headed in the other direction,
Is someone counting moments ’til they’re home…

Until they can return into these houses,
Not meaningless to them as they’re to me,
And fold themselves into the arms of loved ones
And toss a toddler in the air with glee.

And as I venture home again this evening
With tales to tell, my own heart full of glee
Others passing in their trains will glance at my house
And dismiss it as a blur, for they’re not me.

For only I could love this little town house
With listing walls and pipes that won’t not leak
It’s quirky quaint (and truthfully quite dowdy)
But home to those who make my life complete.

The Journey - a (sentimental) poem by Pooky

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