The journeyman found his way home

The journeyman found his way home


For so long, and by name only,
he was a craftsman.
Silent artistry, output never quite
scaling dizzy enough heights,
reflecting the mediocrity
of his present.

Each time he spoke of his soon to be success,
regression to the boy.
The one he fought
who dared not peek over the parapet guarded
by peers and bullies and those who,
just somehow seemed to get it.

Tired.
Finger tips sore
from opportunity sliding through
bare
putrid flesh
like the knife he carried to carve what he knew
would come.

Switch flicked (when he met her)
and in the end he realised
that he was bored of walking and carrying the burden of knowledge which told him, painfully, truthfully,
that one grasp of a passing moment
could take him to where
he belonged.

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