Home-sick

We take the names we once possessed,
and lay them ‘pon our eyes to rest,
for they may see the soul as star.

Though we walk tired, we march far.

Are we now doomed for all etern’,
seek we no more, yet, still we yearn?
Like dead, these crows lead our way,
farther more on paths astray.

So look we back to sorry lot,
we were not child, though grew we not.
What’s left from there, what we once knew,
but many lost and from us few?

The names forgotten and no more deserved,
and faded the eyes, and our souls are unnerved;
we are just a face in the dust of our time.

So turn we away from home and our prime.

We are but crumbs for crows to pick,
not more than restless, wicked, sick –
and tired of a world unknown;
The world to which our home has grown.

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