Here I drift,
Between tiny islands.
A branch of the pacific
On my way home,
Again.
And here I am.
It’s funny to think
Not a month ago
I was in the south.
Deep down and swallowed
In the south.
A different world and a different mind
A different place and a different time.
As we gallop across the desert
I found my self surrounded by everything familiar.
The roads I now travel with ease once seemed so foreign and unseen.
Unlike the dirt roads and back streets I knew as a child yet I feel at home.
And there I was,
Not even a month ago,
Running from sand storms
And finding comfort in a rectangular box on wheels in which I shared with 4 others.
Now, here I am
Drifting
Between tiny islands
A branch of the pacific
And a bird,
A bird white in colour
With who knows what intentions
(if birds even have intentions)
Drifts.
Riding every wave of the wind,
With ease and comfort
And below,
Guilt and glee
Passionate and free
Some angry,
We float
Across the sea.
Here I am,
Im drifting
Between tiny islands
The north pacific seas.
And there is a man in the corner
Huffing glue.
An elderly couple
Who love like it’s new.
Here I am,
Afloat, the ocean below.
Searching for something.
A culture shock
Or a home, made of mud and rock.
Foreign talk or a foreign walk
A foreign taste or a new forest lake.
Here,
I drift
Out of tiny islands
…and we dock…