Way Station

I am a way station.

Not a person. Not someone.

I am simply a moment in time,

Here to be used as others pass through.

I am only a temporary stopping point for those in need.

The broken, the scared, the weak,

Those with the tattered souls.

They all find me sooner or later.

I am a reprieve from their pain,

A balm for the cutting edges of this world.

I don’t ask to be, yet my words soothe them.

Somehow, I pick them up. I dust them off.

I put them back together,

Replacing shattered pieces of them

Like they were a puzzle I didn’t even know I could see.

They become themselves with me.

They emerge, better, happier.

The who they were meant to be.

The strays of the world become free

And they move on, without a single glance back.

They return to where they belong,

To where they’re meant to be.

And this port shines a little less with each fleeting traveler.

I am a way station.

I am not a destination.

No one stays

And I end up broken and alone.

 

© 2017 Melissa L. Webb

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