But I must stop searching

The crick of the neck
And the nook in the shoulder
In the cries of the seagull
And in a crescent shaped croissant
I must stop searching
For hidden meaning

The city and its maps
In trains, blue and yellow
In words that brought hope
And words that end delusions
I must stop searching
For strange familiarity

In the lines upon a palm
And ripples upon the canal
In the faint smells within a bed
And in the hands of another
I must stop searching
For home and all things far away

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