How far to go.

The stumbling, drunken man will be no different at home,

as he mumbles of a god even he

is unsure can save him.

 

The streets are brighter here

and twice as busy

yet somehow calmer;

and I don’t have to remember to move

my feet.

 

How can this be?

It is no paradise.

 

Trading one city for another—

It should be no different.

But it is.

The people can still be mean,

no less selfish.

 

Still, I remain willingly ignorant of even this;

perhaps it is the lights.

 

And I despise the home

I miss most.

Perhaps it is Solitude’s companion—

A healthy presence when it is not abundant.

 

But in these lights,

the uncertainty is welcome,

the chasm in my heart, a savory pain.

 

It is the white breath from my lips

that reminds me I am alive.

​​

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— A.M. Sención

02.2025