I stood within my own four walls,
yet did not recognize the doorway.
The paint is a different color,
and the photographs hanging
depict faces from a life I do not know.
Through the open window,
I hear the lonely whistle
of a train as it passes through
this hometown where
the street names have changed.
A siren dwelling in my ears.
Knowing then, that my heart is
already stored within the boxcar
making its way to some end unknown.
The great and marvelous over there,
wherever these rails may lead.
A stranger, the hand that will reach in
and guide my steps onto the platform.
A conductor to a different earth.
And should I ask if we’ve arrived.
I could only assume he would answer, maybe.
By Jacob Lee
Jacob Lee is a 29 year old writer, based out of Columbus, Ohio. He finds poetry to be a reminder to slow down; a remedy to a world intent on burning itself out. He has been previously published by The Soapbox Press in Toronto, Ontario. He has a degree in music, and when not writing, is part of three multi-genre bands.