Zwolle

We turned directions and I’m lost, this town
A forest where I don’t know anything,
A flow of strangers in whose eyes I don’t
See recognition; rivers streaming in
Both ways, and toxic fumes hazing my sight.

It’s warmer here than home, the air a sweet
Unsalted crust, with some medieval scents,
We are closed in by history though
No one seems to care. We hear the witches
crying murder as they burn and drown.

It’s where you live. It feels as if I know
These walls, none straight, all old.
A train is speeding through the mumbling night
With purple big haired girls and tired young faces.
We turned directions and I’m home right here.

Comments on: "Zwolle" (4)

  1. Wow, that is one powerful poem. I love the description of the air. But the all of it, wonderful.

  2. Good stuff!

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