At times, your words don’t come from you. They are too powerful to belong to one voice, their meaning too deep for one tale. Recently, I uttered some of this sort. They were said to someone I know in a jovial tone, without much thought gone in their formation.
And yet, when I reflected on them, I was saddened. Extremely. By their weight, the lost possibilities they spoke of, the grief of demise they had. Moved, I wrote this poem, and made those words its title. Let me know how you like it.
All Vacations Must End
All vacations must end,
And we must find our way home.
These roads, pastures, these greens,
Must be bid goodbye and forgotten,
And we must walk again to the West,
Barefoot, bereft of enterprise, alone.
Stories and tales of celebrations,
Of wild nights and women, and wine some,
Yarns borne out of yarns torn,
Will rest forever in these sands, we won’t.
We were welcomed with laughter, gifted smiles,
Pleasured with the glances of kohl-laden eyes,
Drowned in their depths, breathed life into by their kisses,
Upon these sands, by these waters, made whole.
We saw the Sun rise together, fingers entwined,
The horizon painted golden with your skin,
The waves washing away our old lives,
The echo of the waters became our song.
And so we spent our time killing Time,
Making music, love, eternity,
And you carving them all on me with your nails,
It hurt then, I bled, but not like now.
For this is whence we walk apart,
Go back to worlds where we must exist,
Toil, labour, and sweat for silver, so that some day,
When that vacation ends, we can return home.