At end, when it is too late <br />to start anew. <br /> <br />When every chance to fly <br />lies like dead birds in your rear view <br /> <br />It was not out of love <br />nor any childhood dream <br /> <br />That we ran, ignoring every wonder <br />of life only to wind up here <br /> <br />By accident, and looking up to see <br />in the vaguely familiar face <br />of a stranger <br /> <br />every soulful longing of home <br />since we, last, left it <br /> <br />A sense of familiarity <br />running behind me as I left <br /> <br />Saying, 'Here, is your coat <br />you will catch cold' <br /> <br />Life is nothing more than this <br />a walk around the block when you were seven <br /> <br />At first wonder, and then the drudgery <br />of again and evermore...<br /><br />John Tansey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/middle-age-8/
