Ink bled from the stones on the path, scarring the earth. It was the blood of all that walked through your heart. Who walked, and ran, and stomped, and stumbled, and crawled. They carved furrows, and they dug trenches, and they planted flags long since bleached to white and forgotten in the winds.
The skies churned and glittered. The purples, and yellows, and greens kaleidoscoping together in a gentle whorl. When they shifted, words rained down from the sky.
The words that forever float in the crevasses of your thoughts, told to you before you packed up your things, before you turned your face to the wind, who tried so hard to keep you moving, and saw the great gulf between you and they. All the stories and songs gently misting around you that you never really understood until then.
Vents opened in the earth around your feet, belching out the smell of cooking onions, of incense and candles, the smoke stinging your eyes. As your tears struck the earth, they shattered into laughter and sighs. Into the sound of zippers, the muted crunch of snow under your boots, and car doors just almost closing in sync.
On the breeze you inhaled the musty attics, of memories locked in cardboard boxes and shrouded in dust, the leather of books and paper, thoughts made solid from your hands. On the end of your breath, the echo of how your pillow tried to hold on to their essence for a little while longer, to give you a gift wrapped in cloth and hair when you laid your head down.
And you stood in the middle of your mind and looked out at the paths and trails of your soul. Some of them long since overgrown with brambles and thorns, where beyond lay naptimes and lincoln logs with those little dents when they fell down the stairs. The wind, your old friend, gently turned your face back to the west, where there be dragons and mountains. And you walked into the setting sun.
In case anyone is interested, I wanted to write a poem about the feeling of looking through one’s memories before leaving a place you grew up with no intention of returning. In my case, when I left the east coast to move out west on a whim almost a decade ago. Writing in 2nd person felt fitting for this.
There’s a lot of great imagery here; I particularly love the block starting with “Vents opened in the earth…”
Also: “The skies churned and glittered. The purples, and yellows, and greens kaleidoscoping together in a gentle whorl. When they shifted, words rained down from the sky.” I’m a sucker for colorful representations.
Memory and perspective seem to cling tightest when a radical restructuring is decided; what a strange yet satisfying feeling! The West as a concept has always filled me with a sense of freedom, future, and wanderlust; I love seeing the East contrasted as a reflective history and dynamic present. Thank you for sharing!