I'm driving through the city.
It feels more like a slow crawl
through my memories.
The windows are down but it's
not the breeze rushing past --
it's the past.
It's been nothing but weeks
of having to "carry on". oh, I
grow weary of my own strength.
I tire of being the lone wolf;
prowling through forests of my
design. I seek a reprieve from it.
I long for a community, for once;
to be surrounded by others, even
though I know I'll never belong.
One of writers or poets; even one
of veterans. Somewhere I can hang
up the sky; where I don't need the
strength of the titan, Atlas, everyday.