There Is No Place Like Home

A poet rises from the dead, nature greets him with embrace The poet is a newborn child, with lipstick written all over his face Songbirds go to singing the sacred hymn of life A spark becomes the giving sun, warming the cold bones in my back For I lost my pen, some time ago, in the the prime of inspiration In the abyss, I shared the maggots bed, they devoured my hope as their daily bread The imploding moment inside a pen, bows to the black hole sun This is the moment that poets fear most, once inspiration becomes undone Yet, this is the price, all poets must pay, accepting the bad with good They both have their turn, again and again, As the tides run away, they return with the wind Yet, now I am dreaming in colors again True is the saying, "There's no place like home" The harvest is ready, the sickle is sharpe The gloom has departed, along with the dark