Are there any, like myself, the diaspora of a small and rural, remote town.

Are there any, like myself, who yearned to know where the gravel road led. But, now that it’s gone, wish I could follow it home.

Are there any, like myself, who used to think the open spaces were like walls that kept me from the world. But are now the space that once embraced my world.

Are there any, like myself, who can find only traces of my home. And beneath the overgrowth of brush, discover hard-packed remnants of roadways dotted like scabs on the healing earth.

Are there any, like myself, who feel displaced. Prodded like cattle to keep pace with an impatient world.

Are there any, like myself, who move like a ghost through the crowd.

 

 

 

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