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  • Connor Pohlman, Creative Corner & Opinion Editor

Vagabond

By: C-J

How can a street have a name

But not

I?

Words, die, bleed out with ink of 

poems harmonize to the sound of roads

Winding down until it blows

Me away, 

Shoestring sandals backpack more with

a broken compass and illiterate map

Beacons hold a jaded hand that

snares the skeleton key, opening every door

Locked, 

locked, 

locked, 

locked, 

locked, 

locked, 

locked

You don’t have to (have) go (a) home, but you can’t stay here

Or here, or there, or there, or here

Where

am the static space, deadlocked

into place, it fleets and scurries

The lantern swinging, is kissed coldnight

as the mill of time stirs

Blurred fog on the cobblestone

Path

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