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.
Turned from gates of dependence 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.
To ignite those unreachable dreams again.
Things have become slightly slanted.
The faces so unfriendly.
Some are missing altogether.
Replaced by fresh ones, but you don't know their names.
Home is a place where you go back to lick your wounds.
Stay in tune with yesterday.
Until the nest completely blows away.
Nobody knows your name; you're a graying orphan.
A gasoline-splashed stray.
A stranger lives in your nest now.
The whole world plays the jester.
Holding a piece of your ancient flint.
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