Diaspora

Silent rooms, empty halls, 

Cupboards less than bare,  

Smudgy glass, vacant shelves, 

All dusty, without care.

It pains him now to see it so, 

Even though it’s no surprise,

He had to come and take this blow, 

If just to say goodbyes. 

Withered wood, creaking doors, 

Yards choked by weeds,  

Fallen fence, crumbled stone, 

All crying of endless needs.

Old memories of when it wasn’t so 

Still burn within his heart.

He wonders why he can’t let go, 

Yet he knows it’s all a part

Of the wounds he still bears 

And his hope of what could be,

His demands to face the truth, 

And his longing to be set free. 

He can’t go back, 

Yet he can’t move on.

He won’t accept 

Where his life has gone.

 

Broken words, shattered dreams, 

Adrift, without any fire.

Scattered wills, aimless thoughts, 

Drained of all desire.

He sees these things in this crippled wreck, 

A soul left to decay. 

Its whispers spur a bitter check, 

For he knows he’s lost his way.

Yet he will not start his life anew. 

He’s too old to set that goal.

He’s prayed to God to see him through, 

Yet insists on keeping control.

He can’t go back,

Yet he can’t move on.

He won’t accept 

That this life is done….

.

-- Copyright November 2013, Kirby Lee Davis