Ulysses Revisited

It’s hard for me to fathom that this still, quiet town was once my home. No home now, not the clean sidewalks, clipped lawns, suburban scrawls. So it seems indecent & pointless to remain here while my mind is still across the green ocean in smoky villages, muddied tents, and bloodcurdling silences between the raining bullets. So I wander from this New England corner, in search of sirens. While I stay, I only stagnate, rust in old wounds & dust in withered scars. My legs ache to march again, but not away, towards. Because over there, men meant more, yet they were spent as though they were less. Over there, I meant not just more, but I “meant”, period. I had a place and a purpose, once. Silences mean less here without the threat of breaking. Nights mean less with the guarantee of morning. I mean less without a pack to carry. So I’m moving on, to see more of this terrible, wonderful world, to seek—something, ANYTHING, while I still have hope. The train leaves today. I have my ticket… my old boots & my pack, and my purpose: “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”