Flitting Memories

Walking down the open road

No sign of life around me.

I seek the still reprise of thought,

That no human word can give me.


There among the leaves and the trees,

Found by the rapidly cooling breeze,

Stumbling along that lonely path.

Only searching, never succeeding.


As memories like fishnets tangle,

I get lost among the brambles,

Mind now far away,

Only falling, no longer seeking.


If only I could listen,

That still small voice,

Still cheering me on.

“Come home, dear one, come home!”


Lost among the thorns, brambles, trees

Of the mind I sought to purge,

I ran from the friends who could have seen.

Who never will.

Because I never told them.


Then, among these long, strangles memories,

I find the source of that still small voice.

In ta cavernous hole carved by pain,

Shines a sapphire with Star within.


Pleading, “Save me, save me.”

One little stone, white and blue,

Born of the sorrows that tangle still.

The voice of my own calls for salvation.


Laying in the dust of my own soul,

I found nothing but my own need.

When a hand reaches into my void

Calling “Daughter, you are home.”



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