Coming Home

My mind is musty, overgrown

With weeds and deeds the years have sown

And names untold that never left a face,

I turned to you to find you’d gone

Just like the bird that nodded on

Unknowing, and unseeing in its grace.

 

But must the world of you and I

Take such a breath of time to die

We hungered for the far horizon race,

I turned to find the years between

Had spun the web, but lost the dream;

The far horizons stare us in the face!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[cynthiabuhainbaello]

"To die is not the tragedy of this world, it is when we let something inside us die too." The poem is sad and dreamy, like a farewell to this life ("coming home") because when dreams die (" but lost the dream") there is no more reason for living. As writers, we sometimes look back and only find regrets that nag endlessly of things that might have been, and sad as it seems, we can still write about them as you did in this poem. To say this is brilliant is an understatement.