Ok, here's the deal: tell me what image this poem paints for you. I wrote this based on a picture I saw tonight and I'd like to know if what I have does it justice. After people have said what they think, I'll post the picture. You can also tell me what you think of what I've written. Enjoy.
Home, Or Somewhere Just Like It.
Exile reads as poetry in code,
and we're never sure what home means.
Retreating in a herd of neon lights,
what the blue is to the colour-blind.
And the jagged rocks with smooth edges drink the bitterness,
with images of directions as it reaches their heads.
"...or is it that way?"
Where the stable should never stand,
while the loss of balance talks of finer trends.
A destination's breeze grows in the vacuum,
another reason for the messages.
Static textures, shapeless to touch,
an ethereal wasteland, barren like the thought.
And time takes the form of artificial light,
running scared with steps of spite,
across the way back home.
