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Daydreaming of a Former Home
the boy sits, runs a hand through his long dark hair
listening to the music that reminds him of the homeland
he buries his face in his hands and cries softly
thinking to himself how things will never be the same
the smell of the salt water in the harbour
the sight of the thick morning fog
the small fishing boats loaded up with lobster traps
he hates seafood, but its a part of life
in his small town by the sea
streets lined up and down with irish pubs
a dozen voices singing sailor songs
a dozen people drink their cares away
the boy now sits on his couch at home
with a bottle pressed against his lips, he lets out an empty sigh
he stares off into nowhereland, gazing off into space
closes his eyes, and in his mind, to home he runs away
