Posted by: Ron DuBour | September 21, 2016

Coming Home~by Norman Wilson


 

 

Coming Home

There is a voice
In density of emptiness
Echoing before winding through
The crack-ways of mid-dreams
Embracing a pallet of tastiness
In the corners of your mouth
That fixes before morning dew

Time to come home my son
Time to come home, he said
Before the barrenness of space
Could erase his last words
From his manly voice

So clear it came
Like it was just today
Before the dusk of sun rained
A sun that dared to try to wake
Glossed in timeless memories
In the sweetest ache of heartbreak

Now deceased of reach
He lay in separate sleep
His be a cold shallow grave
As time goes by in crack-ways
Of living dreams
In the density of emptiness
Breaching into death

The shrill whistles of dog calls
Guardedly followed his words
As I contently played on
Pretending I did not hear
Anything that might have been said

Time to come home my son
Time to come home, he said
With the shrill whistle, following at end
Just before the crack-ways closed once more
In wake from night’s death
With last wish falling from my tongue
To see his face again

All rights reserved 09/17/16
Norman Francis


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