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Passed Through

by N. King


I grew up in a town that was meant to be driven through.

Here, the road is new and the people are old.


You learn that home is where you are before you can walk.

Quickly, plant your seeds and roots in any soil that lets them grow.


You learn that you’re meant to be passed through too.

To want but not be wanted,

To breath whatever air you’re given-

to give with nothing in return.


No one stays here.


You grow stale,

And die young,

Drunk,

And alone.

 

N. King is a young writer living in the States.

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