Wind blown curls under wild stars.
Hands entrenched in gospel sands.
I heard your father peered, but not far;
his eyes not reaching foreign lands.
Lulling melodies pushed you away young.
In search of spotlight places with lucid dreams;
where you were off to I could never tell,
and the light to me was never what it seemed.
I wonder if people run towards or away.
The two harmonies juxtaposed.
In pursuit of a different life, place, or day;
it all ends up the same, I suppose.
Your cup run over, tattered and worn
you returned to the land of your birth;
and for the first time in a wandering life,
found god on this verdant earth.
Branches of oaks spread out through an autumn sky.
After your long journey home, day by day,
light returned to your mother’s eyes.
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