Homeless

Adrift, I wandered seas of grass, across the
uninhabited places, a desolate and forlorn land.
Where I was destined, bound for, no one knows,
compelled only to rid myself of thoughts of you,
a task at which I persistently failed. Even
now, years later, when hope has fled, when
your face recedes slowly from my memory, you
linger in the corners of my heart. There you are,
in your own cozy home, and I? I remain lost.

 

This is a Golden Shovel, a poetic form I learned during the 2017 Poetry Marathon and still use often. The text from the prompt is used as the last words in each line.