The One-Path Home

A day of little downfall, and little sun, 
people on their way, some in foreign arms, 
emptying their heart, for some love lost…
“What is the cost?”
Of being late, 
or running frontmost, for some profit, some reward.
Of neglecting all else, when the moment calls, 
abandoning all fables and cultural rites, 
and becoming a slave in some corner of the earth, distraught.
Of falling short of change on a big day, 
or begging for company, 
when all years of seclusion wrought and discard
any chance of escape, or a moment of salvage.
“Who is this for?”
For conflict, for commotion, 
for seethe, for passion, 
for all moments of angst and despair, 
and days that came and disappeared,
in wait…
“of what?”
of things that grew roots in years rather than days,
and were born out of settled, resident thoughts, 
that spiralled into a world of their own, 
and meddled with belief 
and fostered a new perspective of the world.

“A victim, 
a captive, a prisoner…”
Words, shared and passed on, 
seldom put on walls 
and read aloud at dawn.
The thoughts of love and shame, 
sharing aspects, holding different claims:
one seemingly outward, but fenced
and held within, pleading and begging
for whatever disturbance there is
out and about, in the town around;
the other blatant in its ways:
raging unease on the person at bay,
then rejuvenating its peers at night,
 and marching for the demise of the light.

Black and white, 
and green with blue,
worn away somewhat
with shearing dust 
that’s been airborne for long, 
and came here from far offshore,
and the green darker as closer to earth, 
and a portion of the sky stolen from us, 
by the snowy whites, 
over grass fostered by the wild, 
right outside, beyond our little abode
where summers were cold…
“and in winters, it would snow…”