Something shifted before the wheels left the ground,
barely noticeable,
as if what was familiar had already begun to recede.
What lay ahead had no clear shape yet,
only the suggestion of places marked by time,
where the past settles
into worn stone
and uneven, fractured lines.
Half Like Home
by Kerry A. Wiley
Eleven hours beyond the familiar,
where the known begins to fade,
to a different life
on the other side.
Eleven hours on a restless wing,
engines hum
like a fragile dream.
Leaving all that is understood
for a distant, unfamiliar land.
Cobblestone streets,
and a trace of the past.
Strangers and stories
in every glance.
Every mile
pulls further away
from yesterday.
Cobblestone streets
with a trace of the past,
strangers and stories
in passing glances.
History carved
into quiet ruin,
footsteps of lives
worn into the stone.
No clear shape
of what will stand
on foreign soil
in a distant land.
Foreign voices
drift through the air,
meanings felt
but not declared.
Ancient walls
in quiet decay,
every turn,
a step unknown.
Every street
feels half like home.
Cobblestone streets,
still holding the past,
strangers and stories
begin to settle.
History pressed
into weathered ruin,
footsteps of lives
worn into the stone.
No clear shape
of what will stand
on foreign soil,
less distant now.
Narrow alleys
under dim light,
worn-down steps,
uneven lines.
Every wall
holds what remains
of passing time
in fading names.
Cobblestone streets
and what remains of the past,
strangers and stories
no longer passing.
History resting
in broken ruin,
footsteps of lives
worn into the stone.
Some faint shape
of what might stand
on foreign soil,
that feels like home.
What lies ahead never fully takes the shape it promises.
It settles into fragments:
worn paths,
quiet decay,
moments that feel both distant and familiar.
The past does not remain behind;
it lingers, altered by distance.
