When I left, The Vale of York rolled up my years of quiet innocence
And stored them on a shelf marked ‘Home’–
Just out of reach–
And so, I am forever incomplete.
Now I stride York’s City walls–
As any other stranger can–
And contemplate the nakedness of not belonging
Like the rest, who haunt my past.
The history, the times of those long dead, invade my Now.
A hidden hoard of secrets, sad regret, and loneliness revealed,
To trip me up, and scar my heart,
And bring to mind thoughts that were lost.
Dust and bones are all that’s left of those who made, but knew me not.
Shadowed icons, laid prostrate, on purple altars of neglect–
No heroes here to celebrate.
Possessed by phantoms’ DNA,
I step the…
