Is it the same, being back?
Is there a sense of gain, or lack?
Comfort from being here
Last time round?
Or loss of the novel
Of new sights and sounds?
Something of both
It seems to me
With familiar comes comfort
But also I see
How comfort can lead
To complacency
And from that
I pray
I will always stay free.
For I cannot accept this
I will not accept this
I must not accept this
And so
I listen
And look
And write in my book
Of the sights
And the sounds
That are here all around
If we don’t look away
Or ignore what they say.
But speak up for those with no voice.
Because we are the ones who have choice.