Land of Lingering

I walk among preserves, not people.

A world-weary wanderer, tired of travel,

but restless in his soul.

These stone-and-ivy ruins,

these empty, rain-slicked city streets,

these dying forests,

these deserts, almost empty of sand,

as if the gods turned a celestial hourglass.

The preserves hail me in greeting,

weep in their newly refreshed grief,

wave to me as I pass,

chase and curse me in their suspicions.

Their children run up to me,

and sing to me,

tugging at my clothes and hair,

encircling me in their singsong games

that light up their ancient faces,

their silent laughter fully roared

in echoes of time.

The musicians still play their festivals

and drip the ghosts of their notes,

that hover, not knowing where to go.

They all linger, just outside the senses,

like flickering lights on the sea.

Instantaneous glimpses of what was,

and what will be again.

‘Wait for me’ they say, ‘we will return.’

I long to sit and eat, and rest,

but over it all,

the  emptiness and solitude

move me ever onward.

My own presence lingers

among them.

I hope it brings them comfort.

Author: smithaw50

I live in NJ. Concentrating now on a getting a full time writing career started. Glad you could be with me on the journey. Ready? Here we go...

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