Time to rest, finally. I suppose we could go further, but hunger is settling in.
Limbs aching from stillness, such stillness is only unnatural.
Seems we are in another world, but it’s not that different,
Not in any immense or measurable way, it’s just these small details.
All these beautiful little details, that frame this place in my mind.
I don’t have a clue where we are, ponder for a second
Trying to decide whether I want to know or not.
Seems I would have more appreciation for this place if I did,
But if it remains a mystery in my mind,
It is special for its essence, not what is actually is.
Real memory is formed by essence, feeling,
Not anything to be described in real words.
A waitress smiles, clean crisp blouse and apron neatly ironed
I wonder if she spent her whole life in this small town.
What a tiny place to grow up, if this is all you know
What would the world feel like to you?
She is as warm as the sweet summer air,
Manners impeccable, not because they should be
But because that’s just who she is.
Old and weathered, the wooden panelled walls have seen their time
Rusted signs and license plates, oxidized as a form of decay
Their life is over, but they’re still kept on display.
Yellowing newspaper, of times gone by
Mostly everyone would have forgotten,
But we’re still holding on, still see the importance in this.
Wheat fields blow under an endless blue sky,
Caressed lovingly by their playful neighbour, the wind.
Although they are rooted into the soil, always stuck in place,
They look content and free, no need to be anywhere else but here.
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