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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.
Copyright ©
Anthony Biaanco
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