The Traveler’s Ghost

She holds the ticket stub, she scrolls the phone, But in this quiet room, she is alone. Did she really stand beneath the Iron Lady’s glow? Or was she just a lantern in a shadow show? The sparkling lights of Paris, the city’s golden beam, Now feel like static flickering inside her fever dream.

She rode the trains through fields of foreign green, A solo wanderer in a moving scene. She walked the Brussels streets amidst the crowd, Where voices spoke in tongues both soft and loud— Words she couldn't speak, yet she felt free, Just the rhythm of the rails and her own company.

She stood where three lands meet, a border line, Drinking in a world that felt completely mine—hers. She found the Winterlights in Luxembourg, A charismatic maze that made her spirit stir. She sipped the hot spiced wine against the biting cold, Where foreign words were whispered, stories to be told.

She brought a full tapestry back to this cold space, A stunning cloth of journey, colour, and grace. But the air here is a blade, and the light is thin, And the threads she wove dissolved from within. The vivid colours faded, the stitches broke and ran; The cloth of her escape became a transparent plan.

It was a gallery of moments, bright and vast, But the canvas ripped the moment that it passed. There is no scent of waffles, no wind upon her face, Just the empty silence of this heavy space. How can a world so solid, so loud and full of hue, Dissolve into the mist the way that mornings do?

It felt like she stepped out of time, a momentary flight, A beautiful delusion before the returning night. And now she’s back in reality, staring at the wall, Wondering if she ever really left this place at all.