Slow fires trail the far horizon,
smoke from the abandoned camp sites
of scavenger angels wheels beneath heavy wings,
the true affection of the tribe scattered by the ongoing
feast of losses as dust rises before a manic wind,
the exultant sting of bitter stones cast on the narrow road.
Who roams through the moon-covered wreckage,
hesitant to explore the unfamiliar terrain,
the weeds and mire, the stiffening bodies?
Who follows the sad, struggling voices
of strays which dwindle beyond the milestones,
the unwritten change for the lost book of transformation?
Who deciphers the lack of art hidden
in the nimbus, the clouded line that divides
layers of litter from the chapters of doubt?
The questions never answered drive me
to strange ways, impinge on the perfect solace I seek,
strangle any hope of ever finding home again.