The pull of the past

There is a will, some while away, a pull which whispers dreams
It isn’t clear which way it wills, nor clear’s it’s choice of days
Today it’s breath is close forsure about my neck and in my mind
And somehow I do not brush it clear
I do not shake it loose
I do not pinch my eyes to blot it out; today I do not mind.

On my quiet journey, singularly tracking through the hubris of our sunny sprawl
The many well inked freaks, the milieu of tattooed
All jabbering on of tales of anger, whether theirs or borrowed from TV
Cause me to reflect on this whispering will and explore the why’s behind my embracing stance?
I am racing home
That is not my life anymore
I am free to come and go, and stay or go.

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