Come home safe, they said.
But no was the only option foretold,
and thus directed, I complied
although I never quite knew it.
So began a short journey
that eventually saw a return,
but nothing is ever quite the same
on return, is it.
Now I can’t sit still,
not even for a second;
the itch is always underneath,
making me scratch and assume long walks
through woods and riverbanks,
past churches and homesteads,
through malls and crowds,
along shore-side and cliffs,
driving trails well-worn and obscure,
over mountains and hills.
In all types of weather,
inclement and brilliant;
never settling, always moving.
And never finding peace within;
the journey bug has bitten deep
and never will be healed,
even unto death.

© 2017 L. Tafa


Author: b20f08

I enjoy solo wargaming and writing. The first caters to the boy that never grew up; the latter satisfies a deep desire to communicate. Cheers.

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