Brickedroad

High or Low on the Brick Road; traveling to and from ones own abode. The wind crashes, smashes cans and thus: My home waltzes in a cacophony. So long is the dead wait In my red ballon hands. Am I falling up or down? Which is which is a matter of tempo as the little notes grow into full bands Now scared I go onward swiftly into the darkness for rest to be beaten by sins so originally A lost resolve to continue on My courage faded and legs felt rusty The beauty of a flower delivered the answer Closed but then opening, spiraling awake Reveling and dancing to each new dawn. Green with envy for what I had seen I chose to pour water on both flowers and fear Then instantly exposed the path back home as being nothing more than a palindrome Home is everywhere and everywhere is Home