Nostalgia

Home ahead,
I march,
With every step,
I am returning,
With every moment,
I am rerunning,
I am coming home.

I step past the threshold;
Into cobwebs,
Into damp and dust,
Into darkness and gloom.
Everything is fading;
Like time.

The walls, are falling apart,
The curtains rot away;
And everything;
Is dying.
Like I am.

I pick up a dusty book;
Worn with age;
With use,
With the satisfaction of fauna hunger,
And I leaf through the pages.
Pictures that speak to me,
From ages,
Times gone,
Patterns lost.
The darkness dwelt at writing.
The darkness dwells at reading.

I flip the pages,
Reading my countenance;
Of innocence;
Of hunger;
Of the dilapidated house;
Bright once, with life.

And the light is enkindled;
My eyes are aflame;
Heart, feed emotion,
The wall is rebuilt,
And cobwebs vanish,
And dust wiped,
And the curtain,
Colour glows,
And the room is illuminated.

The sunlight pours through the windows,
The room is bright, vibrant,
And outside, on the grass;
A child sits.

His eyes speak of astonishment,
His mind filled with childish innocence,
His small frame against the plum tree,
And his laugh;
Innocent,
Carefree,
Livening.

I walk towards him,
I kneel down beside him,
I pat his soft head,
And he continues,
Laughing,
Innocent.

He didn’t know the hand of his future touched him;
He remains on lush green;
And admires the blooming red rose;
The warmth of the sun;
The innocence;

Little he knew,
He would be lost,
The innocence replaced with cunning,
The sweetness with roughness,
The eyes,
From bright;
To dull.
Or is it now reversed?