Going Nowhere, Arriving Late
Would you like to come with me
Going Nowhere, Arriving Late
I took the road.
It bent away.
It bent again.
It lost its name.
The hour was gone.
The train had passed.
The street was silent.
The lamp was dim.
I reached the square.
The faces gone.
The air was hollow.
The echo stayed.
I carried lateness.
It burned like ash.
It marked my steps.
It named my path.
Going nowhere.
Arriving late.
The door is locked.
The time is done.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
Keep reading
More stories from Marie381Uk and writers in Poets and other communities.
Smart phones, Humans and Aliens.
WARNING. I will be tapping into one of your favorite creative tensions: The absurdity of humans worshipping their glowing rectangles as if they were tiny oracles. There’s something deliciously poetic about that contradiction, and it lends itself beautifully to an instructive proviso.
By Novel Allen5 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
I think this happens to all of us from time to time. Good job.