I Am Gone Home

Bereft of words,
symbols of meaning.
They dance along the edge,
adrift from the heart of knowledge.

Am I a word,
then of what am I deprived?
From whose heart have I drifted,
have I lost myself?

Looted my own store,
ravaged my own crop?
Alone along the hills,
edge of a self not itself.

Mistaken,
but mistakes are corrected.
Mind forgot its power,
Thing itself, never lost.

Desert of words,
yet they grow.
Rooted purchase,
oasis of syntax.

The knowing Self,
my home.
That ancient house,
of many mansions.

Dreaming,
but dreams are healed.
Unalone after all,
the hills begin to sing.

Dimly,
I recall home.
More legend,
than memory.

Home is what matters to the far traveler.

Desert hills,
red, lowing sun.
Their song a choir's whisper,
angels robed, hems untouched.

Row upon row,
blue, gold, blue.
The quiet descends,
the ages weep for joy.

Memory comes to a quiet mind,
longing becomes a tenuous faith.
Behind me,
a garden.

Night sky,
pregnant with stars.
I walk,
under a whitelace moon.

Once dreamed of waking,
huddled in a corner.
Right angle of a century,
Who'd it been, speaking?

Just a thought,
did it say?
Voice without a face,
high-raftered owl.

Hot midnite wind,
to these ears, a thousand wings.
Justathoughtjustathought,
the deeper grows my forgetting.

Thinking made it so,
the cracking dawn said.
The horizon laughed,
but not unkindly.

Once a creator,
now a perceiver.
I dreamed ideas leave their source,
the owl only stared.