He notes the late winter chill
Seethe through his veins,
As he stands in the middle of somewhere,
Waiting
For the sun’s rage and the rains.
It has been a rough year
For him and his thoughts astray,
In the land of mortals and less,
Striding
Along to some home far away.
A hope a minute and then it dies,
While another one is born,
One among the crowd and that’s enough,
Dragging
His feet on needles and thorn.
No fellow travelers here,
As the shadows pay their dues,
He exists amidst the crescendo around,
Calling
Out his own name in praise and abuse.
The fire burns his skin and more,
The rains flood his mind,
The wind pushes him back again,
Holding
His soul in its fatal grind.
The clouds welcome his sight above
And the heavens are all gray,
But his hopeless hope will make it across,
Knowing
Home is just a hundred tears away.