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Sunday, September 21, 2008

A Homecoming Trilogy [3]


What we have made of Life's loan
Lies deep in the body's grammar:
It is a drunk poet that writes
Of salvation nights without rites,

Paying penance to a visiting moon,
Who can know what the future holds?
Even when we hold a united stand
We still die with an empty hand,

So fill the heart with God's charity,
Or the days slip past to a home town
That no longer exists in place
Except in tears across your face -


Like music made but never played,
We lock away versions of the future
That'll never see the light of day,
We're children of yesterday

Unable to live in today's mind,
We mix a requiem with the wind
That sweeps our native shore,
We're lost in a watery war,


Youth is a dreamland's locked door
With the light pouring under-through,
Streaming naked thin, white and poor
Dying on bare panes upon the floor,

Memories are only pale human-shine
Coming home after such a long time,
Possibly all part of time's plan,
But push back the lock if you can,

Tread lightly on creaking boards,
Speak low, let hollow echoes lie
That sleep in every corner,
Do not call or they'll answer -

For those who bravely return
Like a petal fallen from its bud,
Cannot guess which seeds have grown
Or which homecomings will find home.

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