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Poetry

What's at the end of the road

Laika

You're looking at the distant road
the path from where you have to go
I am looking deeply into your eyes
that tell me you yearn;
you yearn to go,
to take the road
less taken,
to walk away.
You're not thinking of a return
are you?

You're not interested
in the sight
of the mountains,
the sun that's melting
into a shade of coral,
an end you envisioned,
the heatwave of a may evening
is above,
there is so much love
here;
there is home,
warmth,
poetry,
sweet honey directly from the hive,
mornings filled with
sunshine.
In
this melancholic hometown
where you spent your youth

sure there are tales
you seek out,
that cannot be found
here around,
but your sight looks away from the crowd.
I thought it was to search for something,
for me maybe,
but you were faced
towards the distant end
it doesn't seem like you
were waiting
for someone to come
but you were hoping to go.

To the roads of the valley,
the cars that go swiftly from here; out,
they're your favourite sound.
More than the voices
of your children.

I look at your grey hopeful eyes
they're always looking at the exit,
they're always looking at everything that is leaving,
leaving this hometown.

You're looking at the distant road
I'm looking at you,
looking at leaving.
To take the road.
To walk away,
with nothing
left behind,

nothing
that will ever know
how to return,
that will ever know
the address back to
home.

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