"It's not the destination, it's the journey."
How many times can I hear
that damned phrase and wonder aloud,
alone in the half-light
of my stained-carpeted bedroom?
How did these dark blots come to be-
these Rorschach images of
dripped coffee, milk, orange juice
stomped out by socked foot
by unknown lives secluding to this room:
this sanctuary of loneliness,
fortress of thoughts
spoken aloud to the ghost-stains
held within its white,
cracked, plaster walls?
They have no answer, destined to silence.
And one day, my ghost-stain too
will listen to unanswered
thoughts spoken aloud in
the half-light and smile,
knowing the answer, destined to silence.
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