I speak to the faces that fill my vision.
The same faces but for a deeper crease or a tighter smile,
same voices altered with an easier laugh or a longer sigh,
same mustaches illuminated with a whiteness that wasn’t there before.
I tread the same roads that welcome me , the
roses bleeding their golden brilliancy on the sides
--similar roses but not the same—
their yellowness spilling across the road in the form of sunrays.
and the stars still dance in their programmed patterns
and the waves still clash in their choreographed crashes
and I am returned, a changed man with an altered eye.,
and they know nothing of my pain.
I sought my Ithaca, and found it here,
on those cyclical journeys you vow you’ll never make.
Burdened by a past I’ll carry always, slung across my back,
like a weatherworn knapsack of the war,
and wherever I go memories and visions tumble from the holes
and splinter to a thousand fragments when they reach the ground,
so that there is enough for everyone.
"Angreek87"
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