over the stream of despair
Is set ablaze from the fire of my soul
For I
Need not go from whence I came
The far bank calls me back
But
That call is soon drowned out
by the cracklin’ of timbers.
My tired bones are warmed by the heat
And the myriads of oranges and yellows against a canvas of navy and black
Washes away the regret from the years of waste.
It burns through the night
And as the fog of dawn rises
there's nothing left to look back on
When that path is gone
And all that remains is cinders and ash
the wind
will call me home