Visiting a place is not being there,
it is only sight and sound –
drawn curtains
a polished candelabra.

You see in lists and itineraries,
perspective narrowed
to what such places concede freely,
satisfying curious wanderers;
souls ravaged like refugees,
without the time or patience to settle
down.

A distant home that feels like asylum,
pending and uncertain.
All virtues lost,
yet to be found.

You can feel authenticity crisp in
the air.

You can’t grasp it,
though it is there –
it is there,
left only with pictures awash in venom;
that resolve like troubled thoughts,
dying after a sober night’s sleep.

Visiting a place is not being there.

Being there requires sacrifice.
It requires the hint of escape on the horizon,
silhouetting all the shapes visitors ignore;
seeing those shadows and loving them,
for how they embrace the light.