Drudges and thralls
caged in clocks,
welding days into years.
Wages unlock gates
for … a holiday.
They fly across the world
to stand on borrowed ground,
marvel at the same sky,
bronze in the same sun,
convinced it’s better.
Yet back home,
the same Earth is
dimmed, diluted,
dull.
Why?
Is it receipts they admire,
or the story they post?
Conforming to filtered joy,
oblivious to their own.
Why reach for foreign rust,
when gold gleams beneath their feet?
© 2025 WolverineLily 🌺
Author’s Note:
A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?
Wolverine Lily 
Where can the “unborrowed” ground be found on Earth?
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I kept circling: rented, foreign… borrowed finally landed. Perhaps the best fit, I think. So, “Unborrowed” could mean many things. But the real question is: what does it mean to you?
— Thanks for reading it.
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That’s it? You are ending with a cliche question? Come now, barrister.
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Ravoria? 🤔😉
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You little devil you. See, that’s why I adore you. I know, that’s too American for such a sweet Polish rose like you, for I know well of the laconic attitude of the Eastern European. I pray you excuse my excess.
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I love suitcases, especially when I am traveling LOL
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Thank you.
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You are very, very welcome.
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I feel this sentiment – it speaks to that better is always somehwere else.
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I’m glad the poem spoke to you. Thank you for reading.
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