No Way Back
Nothing seems real.
The cold evening wind
stinging the eyes and through
a watery squint, a blurred parade
of lights bounce and fracture
on wet streets sending splinters
into glazed eyeballs.
The air strops its edges
on bare cheeks until the skin
is numb. Shadows cower
in vacated corners.
All sense of self
pulls back into the warmth
of a padded coat, the head hooded
within its own muffled enclave.
I feel like a space suited visitor
to an alien world, cut off,
a trespasser on territory
that is not my home.
I often feel like this,
hidden beneath layers,
at times struggling to breathe
the alien air, ungainly
in such a weighted world
with no way back
to wherever I came from.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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