i find i am not
immune to the
sweet call of
occasional bouts
of homesickness
the spinning vortex
for a place i know
no longer exists
terminal trips
of razored nostalgia
through lost souls
in sepia malaise

it isn’t as if
there is any hidden
opportunity in amongst
the fields of corn
new experiences
squirreled away in
familiar potholes
no place to run to
that can ease the
strain of existing
in stasis waiting for
some fresh chance
in the dessicated husk
of childhood wonder

just a return to
the paths of comfortable
self destructions so
many of the spirits
haunting the graveyard
that once seemed so
small and idyllic
eventually succumbed to
the inherited smothering
of the embers of dreams
the lingering touch of
the void that pulled
them back to find an
unwitting demise

so many tried to
escape the trap of
cyclical escapes
only to find themselves
back in the dilapidated
landscape of familiar
scars where they have
a place in the crowds
of withered prisoners
that once seemed so
much larger than life
and i tell myself
if i am going to be
a statistic then i will
become one far away
from the interred bones
of distorted memories

in my mind i walk
by the riverfront and
the junction of the
two rivers is pristine
all the places that
i used to haunt are
still there filled
with all the people
smiling and joking
i will never see again

my dad and brad sit
with glasses of beer
that never empty and
tap the open stool
and we sit long into
the night talking about
the kids and her smile
and i think maybe it
is less homesick and
my heart that is under
the weather of over
a thousand miles away