Gray Orphans and Ancient Flint

Many paths lead away from home but only one leads back as the years sit salted upon the rack you find the path home has narrowed and turned from gates of iridescence to mirrors opaque and black- you arrive with exhaustion on your boots a feast of favorites on a favorite plate go upstairs to your yellow crib have those unreachable dreams again\ things are slightly slanted the faces changed some are missing all together some are fresh but you don't know their names to soon it's time leave and spar with devils again. Home is where you lick your wounds stay in tune with yesterday then one day that nest has completely blown away nobody knows your name you are a graying orphan a gasoline splashed stray and the whole world plays the jester holding a piece of ancient flint.