Footsteps fall silently across the carpeted floor,
And into the brisk night air, to be free, to be far, to be me.
The drop of the tone and the drip of the rain
The darkened arms umbrellaing overhead, judging the path,
Gently swaying with disapproving shadows and eyeless stares.
Gone again. Not again. Not a gain.
Quickening pace and into the light, the dizzying sights and sounds,
Feeding the eye and touching the ear, just on the tip of the tongue.
We were young once, a thought shared with the abandoned street window,
And looking back the hollowing sound, of lost care falling to disrepair.
A figure once standing proud and now hidden deeply away,
The reply arrived with a knowing look in the eye, familiar, yet faintly so.
Another way through, a detour across, a fast track to the other side,
Away from the noise, prying strangers and into the arms of home.
The familiar squeal of the grinding hinge, needing work promised last.
With the creak of the boards as each step bears the weight of witness,
To the returning shame of the prodigal failure.
For once again, the mind too weak, escape halted, moment passed.
