Homeward Bound

A WALK BACK HOME 

I often find myself amidst the crumbling cliffside, 
mumbling words to myself. 
Within the mouth of the weeping river, 
I must disperse the ashes of an awakening. 
Through the darker brush, 
colour would soak the dry paper. 
In the corner of an eroding house,
I lack the search I'm entrusted. 
The mist I've felt this morn,
now buries me in a shawl of memories. 

The tiny tendril holding onto the iron railing, 
unwinds in the solitude it enjoys. 
It swirls in the nightly gale, 
swaying in its shallow reflection. 

A feeling surges in me, 
as the poison in a pitcher leaf. 
It urges the nightly stillness to visit the lonely house, 
its amber curtain still intact. 
The long lane, in front of me, 
is waning under the new moon. 
It was once the pen,
I had written my childhood with. 
The ink had flowed evenly, 
such as the poison in my drink. 
And now it must end abruptly, 
the tiny man in his bottle of wine. 
The twilight sky drinks the last few rays of the sun, 
while I sink in my purple drink.