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On  Moving  2000 Miles Too Far From Home

Time marches on with lead feet
And we are soldiers scampering about
In the  dark.
There's no going back to the dawn.
The air is ruptured by a train
Sounding a horn in the distance
Separating the dense fog.
In my head, the music plays.
I know this dance.
My feet shuffle knowing how to move.
Stepping slowly, circling
Around a fire whose embers are dying out.
Exactly, how is war waged here?
I strike bravely at the chords of existence
With the wearying flaw of persistence.
In the night
Come like bullets seeking my life.
I remember
This is the land of earthquakes.
I make a mental note.
Seek solid ground, or move on.
But life has been miles in the waiting.
Shadows stretching forward seem brief.
And the ones before,
Yes, the ones before,
Make me tired
And seem to stretch on and on.

Meloo/Melissa A. Howells Copyright December 2009

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