Poetry Prompt Twelve: Moving

8 years a traveller, that’s me,

From homeland to those far flung places, that’s where I may be,

Wandering lost, on a journey,

Of discovery and subsequent destruction,

Following my own path, sweet, crazy, maybe.

I live in a country,

whose motto is ‘We are free!’

But I’ve never felt more repressed,

no job, no visa, no new company.

The end is in sight,

In the future I’ll call on my feet,

To carry me away to lands I’ve not yet seen.

Through Thailand, to Aussie,

New Zealand, Cambodia, Hong Kong, Both Americas I’ve been,

Europe and Asia, I’ve always felt free.

6 continents of 7, so proud of me,

Now I’m stagnant, I’m stale,

I don’t know who could help me?

But as I wait for immigration to allow me to work,

Throw down some roots,

Make my future with my husband,

A small voice mocks me,

“You travel and travel, now you want roots? Like a tree?”

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