Leaving Home

The screeches of a tuned-out violin cut through lonely, sleepless city,
Thought the sound had made him smile, it brought back thoughts of pity.

With makeshift bag in restless arm, he turned to gaze, to think,
Indeed, the city had its charm, but in his heart it did not sync.

Cosy tunes and sounds of home had made him bend his ear
But it was time to leave the old behind, time to disappear.

There was no sense for partings, speeches or goodbyes;
Just a weak and trembling hand, wiping at his tearful eyes.

A tattered road was there before him, only leading to the east
But it was not what he expected, wasn't tempting in the least.

No adventures lied before him, all the steps were quite well-known,
Leaving home was not exciting, he'd just face the world alone.

So he took the path before him, walking till the mist grew thin
With the makeshift bag in arm, his old lamp and violin...

Reviews

[J.M]

Had to read this twice to truly absorb its meaning but it was worth it. A melancholy poem, but an interesting one at the same time. Sad, but not tragic or self-pitying. Good work!

[Samuel Dickens]

And so it is when one leaves the familiar comforts of home and ventures out into the world. Perhaps great joyful things await, and perhaps not. But you'll never know unless you try.