Poem: Coming Home
In the twilight of my years, I’ve come home to write.
A repository of feelings, cleverly blanketed from fright.
I bandy about pouring myself on to white paper,
my poor littered life, a sullied cloud of toxic vapor.
And what of this brazen sojourner who detoured from existence,
has she been punished enough or can she finally seek subsistence?
Every life has its story or so I’ve been told,
so let’s end this much better with a life to behold.