Your voice each evening on my ancient phone -
my only contact from beyond this empty world
that teems with life. All look like me,
as I resemble them. Look through me though,
Night falls. Day breaks. This place
like any other, home included.
But night and day are like no other:
the sullen light turned sudden fierce -
never a time between the two.
Never a cooling breeze, refreshing shower,
but simmering streets in broiling sun.
Parched fields are not my style. At night
a solid darkness pinpricked by a million stars -
it's one claim to magnificence.
Sounds have no significance.
The words I had have had the sweetness sucked,
pruned of all meaning, cut to their basic stems.
I walk the streets in search of friendly speech,
of words to walk in step with me,
that know the rhythms of my ambling gait.
Gargled and strangled vowels are not my style.
Never a smell to bring a memory.
They've no more meaning for me than the sounds,
give neither pleasure nor disgust, but like all else
are dumb with neutral flavours, leave me cold.
I wait to hear again from you.
ManicDdaily in Poetics at http://dversepoets.com/ has set Exile as the theme for our challenge.
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