the song of home
a distant memory now drowned and tangled in the hands of otherness silence rumbles for yet more in the new bloom in the old wrinkled hands in the rising hopes of another setting sun i am one day closer to home the hymn of redemption plays on truth’s last battle cry sometimes i find myself humming along swaying to the circadian rhythms of the soul calling me to rest home waits for me as i dream of it sing your song find your voice you are not alone not abandoned here hear the distant lilt of love calling you home
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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