Old World Charm

Center folds of vacancy spread on horizon, as the trek down from platitudes of generational divides sinks as rain fueled steps moist beneath the souls carried on. 

The gorge of gloom paints the landscape of foreign lives, ex lives, and forgotten fields of entombed ancestry home field advantages that have taken advantage sleep silently in rows. 

Parted hair whisks endlessly as the earth exhales breathing harder on the frontier, as the days grow more grey, brown, and haunting the future promise of decay.

Foliage of photos dance on the journey onward through slick rain, dampened forests, and firefly lit caves. Breaking free from the known autism of routine, and blind eyes that blink endlessly under the patch we willingly wear to avoid our worst fears.

Homages to the old country where we used to celebrate, live, and die withers away in the fields littered with good intention, and liberation of the mind. Nowhere is now here as we walk into the darkness of the swelling of the Jordan of our lives.

As the cold waters take me my parted hair slowly slips out of sight. The lights that we carry glow in endless glory like a party of fireflies by day, and by night.