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
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