He dreads the day of retreat from the sun,
The pristine cleanliness of the historical story,
The twinkling of the starlight on the darkest of nights,
Honouring him in his wisdom and his glory.
🎗️
The door to the future is open wide,
Waiting for his decision to take the risk and fight,
Abandoning the mundane for a life well lived,
A story told through the ages as his grandchildren say goodnight.
🎗️
Miles stretch across the love of the heart,
Distances broken down by the age of technology,
The light blesses his loving heart with happiness,
Learned by the lesson of ancient mythology.
🎗️
He rides the airwaves of the sun’s rays,
The heat scorching his tormenters following his flight,
Burning the darkness from the blackest of hearts,
From the fiery gaze that welcomes his sight.
🎗️
The thatched roof of the ancestral home shines,
With the memories collected from year to year,
The laughter, the tears, the happiness of his loved ones,
Shirking the horrors, the terrors of his deepest fear.
🎗️
He wanders the shoreline of his deepest regrets,
Dipping his toes in the near misses of his dreams,
Yearning for the olden days of simplicity,
Not the modern days of torment and screams.
🎗️
Will he find the courage to abandon this life that is not working?
Pick up the pieces and follow his heart?
Pack little, pack light and hit the dusty roads,
Leave behind the heartbreak and choose a new start?
🎗️
I believe him when he screams loudly into the night,
“Come take what is left, the little I still own,
I’ve no need of the materialistic necessities,
Because it is the beautiful memories left that I will forever roam.”
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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