Slow Death The Prodigal Son
The road bleeds from the ragged mountains
A winding, endless path of black blood
With blistered feet and arching back,
A lone figure in the murky twilight
Has followed the twisted, crumbling track
Too many long days and nights
Crimson veined eyes seek the golden lamplight
The yearning compels his stumbling footsteps
The long remembered face, so deeply adored,
Appears now from the mist as a ghost, Haunted
Tears like silver on the sallow skin
Pallid, bony fingers clutch the tattered cape to his
breast
As brightly burning flame, the word is spread
Passed from keen lips of kith and kin,
Eager children tug the strangers arm
And plead for tastes of the vast, unknown world
The prodigal son withdraws fron then his arms,
Shelters his soul beneath the ragged cloak
Speaks not a word of the great, dead world
Sanctuary, warming his bones beside the fire
And with hot broth to quicken his blood
To quiet the trembling in his limbs,
And thaw the raw chill from his flesh
A girl once loved, now a woman, dares ask
Of the world beyond the mountains
And in the dark, deathly, silent stare, she learns
That the prodigal son has not returned
