After cobbled miles, troubled mind
still can't unwind from life struck stress
and all the mess despite best efforts.

Found his feet on old familiar streets
like it was meant to be. Though he didn't
believe in pre-conceived destiny.

Breathed heaven sent pollen scent,
bittersweet in the hellish reek of
chemical factories and self defeating reality.

He sought the old pub on the corner
where poets used to meet to pour words
over whiskey and water. Where they'd
fought for all the world had to offer.

It stood where it ought to but it wasn't
like his memory. Couldn't tell if it was
him or them who was guilty of conceit.

Was it worth the Earth, writing for people
he would never meet? Lest he confess
his stubborn pride and deny himself
to try to pick up the pieces.

He gave a thought to entropy
and how leaving's never easy.