Dave S, a returning Villager
“The memory of my mind
is a warning beacon,
the rhythm providing
an odd sort of comfort –
yet feeling nothing.
“A roaring silence consumes,
“I pull the last piece of resistance
from my pocket and light its wick
hoping it will last until dawn.
“The roar of silence wanders away
saddened by my perches of another day.
‘I will be back’, it says…
…hoping for another host.
“I feel a heaviness in my hand,
spread it on the ground,
examine the pieces
of my broken faith.
“I can’t bring myself
to throw it away
for even in its broken state
the pieces are beautiful.
“I fold it,
put it in my safest and deepest pocket
and hear the old man in my head:
‘David, you must seek your tools
and repair it.’
“The blinking beacon
reminds me it is time to move on.
“Another thought uncomfortably enters my head
crying softly of its captivity.
‘Not yet,’ I whisper, ‘it’s not safe.’