The Way Home

Oh a cruel game does time play,

A facade of control I see it give,

And though in dreams redemption lay,

Exceptions prayed for in dawns of day,

Alas what waits is but a sieve.

Immune to truths, warned by most,

Mere seconds more most do desire,

So to extinguish past views once boast.

And of what remains on the coast,

Are surely left what all admire,

But seldom embrace, thus left to roast.

And what of those who choose to roam?

To toil and suffer but fate not yield,

For then a weathered, seasoned, comb,

Will enlighten them beyond the foam,

To seize what has not yet been sealed,

To know of peace inside their home.

So in the dimming light remains,

Nectar’s choice of sweet or sour,

But fear not of mistake or pains,

For there not lie hollow disdains,

No, there grows seeds of life and power,

And home to those who choose the reins.