“From Home I Come”
Carried by the hushed wind that spirals through the sands of sin.
Spiraling, spiraling, spiraling.
And in that cloud of dust comes I, a flambeau, crackling with whispers of the tales I dare know.
The trust that I expect,
The malice that I detect,
The wisdom that I respect,
From the hearts of my elders I am from.
From her captivating berth of awareness.
The milk of happiness as she bestowed.
Upon us all, with purpose of expansion of her kind heart.
Swallowed by the warm sky.
Whipped by the sly.
Forced to cry.
From there I come.
From the silence of a nook.
My nose, skinning the chest of a book.
Surreptitiously plastered with a delicate mold of knowledge.
Refreshed by the waters of its mystical seas.
Toil, toil, toil, but never learn.
The book, an escape.
From there I come.
From atop the torch of Liberty.
Her eyes congested with sensitivity.
Overlooking Her country.
Nothing causes Her more glee than the history that She sagely guards with pride.
My eyes are Hers, intimidating the offenders of our homeland.
Her metallic draperies swaying in the breeze of triumph.
The greatest earthquake rattles Her ground, but dare not She think to fall.
I thrust my arm upward, empowering Hers to proceed in supporting the weight of our freedom.
Her heart is the sun.
Its rays are the spears of Her crown, generating our every breath.
From Her patriotism I was born.
From the meadow.
My hands rummaging through the fertile soil of the Earth.
The scent of pollen boiling in my nostrils.
My sneeze, splattering the Monarch with a swift caress of weightless air.
From the élan of nature I come.
Suppressed by Mother’s arms.
It is winter, the season when her heart pronounces its tenderness by heating my quivering hands.
The goddess of the chill dancing in her ballroom of white glory.
A reunion of Earth and snow, reveling in the crystal lattice of the frost.
I am home.
From home I come.
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