Travelers
Where do they travel? What does the empty train station
lead to them to? Concrete meets metal in one straight road. Twists and
turns forgotten. It's all about what they see. When the metal slides
along concrete it makes such a simple sound full of intrigue. Where are
they headed?
Missing people carry old luggage.
What else are they carrying along with them? Besides the old threadbare bag slung over their shoulder that they clutch like a child clutches a toy. Lights overthrow their shadows on the concrete platforms, imprinting them here in this moment. This day where the sun sets over behind the clouds and they wait for a train to come. To lead them somewhere else. Somewhere forgotten, somewhere new, something blue. Something old or somewhere that they love.
Normal gods among simple men.
Is home loud or quiet? Is it a place of sun or rain, a place full of love or of mistakes. Or are they destined somewhere else. Another home. Another life. Are they running from something. Are they trying to get somewhere else? Are children there with hands so small that they can grip the whole world between their fingers and when they use their voice, they're asking for what they yearn for not for what they lie about. I wonder if there are people that love them where they're going. If they're the people that miss them everyday when they're gone. I wonder if there is answer to a question where they're headed. I wonder if this answer is what they're escaping from.
To somewhere else that's free.
Somewhere where paint becomes clothing. Where music is the air that they breathe. When the sun soaks into skin. Where friends end up as family. Can they smell smoke in the air? Does spilled wine mix with rain and do fallen leaves crush beneath their feet? Will they feel the warmth of a fire on a cold night? Is it here that bodies drink in sun and sky like the animals drink water and blood? Is the grass greener on that side? Is it here where there are shots taken every night, or where lyrics are whispered through smoke? Are there adults trying to become a children again? Adding in the desire for skin, for a kiss, for a family. Are there colors raining down from the sky like falling stars. Is it beautiful there?
Is it like an adventure?
Are they moving to another world, packing up colors in a threadbare bag with nothing but dreams in pockets lined with desire and hope. Traveling from a world of comfort or a world of color to somewhere never before experienced.
I wonder where you're going.
-E.B.H
Missing people carry old luggage.
What else are they carrying along with them? Besides the old threadbare bag slung over their shoulder that they clutch like a child clutches a toy. Lights overthrow their shadows on the concrete platforms, imprinting them here in this moment. This day where the sun sets over behind the clouds and they wait for a train to come. To lead them somewhere else. Somewhere forgotten, somewhere new, something blue. Something old or somewhere that they love.
Normal gods among simple men.
Is home loud or quiet? Is it a place of sun or rain, a place full of love or of mistakes. Or are they destined somewhere else. Another home. Another life. Are they running from something. Are they trying to get somewhere else? Are children there with hands so small that they can grip the whole world between their fingers and when they use their voice, they're asking for what they yearn for not for what they lie about. I wonder if there are people that love them where they're going. If they're the people that miss them everyday when they're gone. I wonder if there is answer to a question where they're headed. I wonder if this answer is what they're escaping from.
To somewhere else that's free.
Somewhere where paint becomes clothing. Where music is the air that they breathe. When the sun soaks into skin. Where friends end up as family. Can they smell smoke in the air? Does spilled wine mix with rain and do fallen leaves crush beneath their feet? Will they feel the warmth of a fire on a cold night? Is it here that bodies drink in sun and sky like the animals drink water and blood? Is the grass greener on that side? Is it here where there are shots taken every night, or where lyrics are whispered through smoke? Are there adults trying to become a children again? Adding in the desire for skin, for a kiss, for a family. Are there colors raining down from the sky like falling stars. Is it beautiful there?
Is it like an adventure?
Are they moving to another world, packing up colors in a threadbare bag with nothing but dreams in pockets lined with desire and hope. Traveling from a world of comfort or a world of color to somewhere never before experienced.
I wonder where you're going.
-E.B.H
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