A poem about a wandering soul who discovers that at the end of his journey, he just wants to return home.


The car was dragging parallel to the shore of some unknown sea.

I was waiting for the sign.

"The coast is clear, this is your chance, but please come back for me"

I promised I would and it wasn't a lie. 

Thinking I'd be back before July.


But I'll never make it home,

I'll sleep next to the loneliest of roads.

We'll become the best of friends,

Me and this unpaved street that never ends.


I miss the days with windows down, hearing sunset sounds as I steer.

It was only there I finally found,

How to forget my foolish fears. 

Now I'm bruised up and somewhat broken down,

I think I belong, but can't tell where I am now.


I still never made it home.  

But now, at least, I'm no longer alone.

We've become the best of friends. 

Me and this unpaved street that never ends.


She asks me,

"Why didnt you write?"

I respond, "So I'd forget that time and place."

She asks me,

"Do you regret those nights?"

I admit, "I try to forget, but all the effort goes to waste."


Maybe eventually,

This is where we'll be.

Your perpetual line,

With intersect with mine. 

When they do you'll smile,

I'll say "It's been quite a while"

Things never go as planned,

And youll try to understand,

Where it is we've been, 

On these unpaved streets,

That never end.  

The End

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