(Poem 7)

I think oftentimes the decision to leave seems harder than the leaving. With the plane ticket in hand, I sat and thought..

The greens seem much more vibrant.
Rain is bound to weigh down lofty branches but
the bright lime vows that hardships bore a plentiful harvest.
The blues seem to carry a richness like
blush returning to the cheeks of someone recovering from
illness.

I step through doors, breathe in the crisp air, and search for the bridge between resemblance and possibility.

There are scattered spots of blackness
amidst textured whites and faded tans. I could pretend
to interpret them but reality has humbled my ability
to boast about a firm hope.
All throughout the landscape I see hints of form.
Faint lines build impressions that encourage a search
for meaning; however, the image before me is a
broken mosaic,
taunting my inability to make sense of something that looks like
it should have a story.

There is no denying I am in a foreign land. I fill my arms with pieces of myself and walk forward to mimic those around me.

The world has become abstract. I feel that if
I reached out to touch it, it would be further set apart.
Like a work of art, the Artist is primed to appreciate every nuance that
goes unrecognized by the viewer, asking only for
patience.
Patience to grasp what is fresh to the mind’s eye.
Patience with self for not needing to have the answers.
Patience with a narrative that is not restricted by time.
Abstract is purposeful just as silence is an answer—both strange and unsatisfying yet oddly profound.
I’m intimidated.

With my heart in hand, I sat and thought… I think oftentimes the decision to stay is harder than leaving.