Journeyer

In the early-setting sun,
across rivers of melt,
through vast fields

of snow-corn,
an acme of adoration

sleeps soundlessly.

My morning cup,

the afternoon's puff,
up to midnight's scoff
at another day wading
through the monsoon
of delusion.

Whispering,
you are coming home
soon. Forging where
home throws its coat
toward, where fingers
wrap around a red-

hot mantle.

My hand quivers.
Maestro of making-

the-most-out-of-it,

discomfited by 

what-you-seem-

to-get-out-of-it.

Journeyer
through the hushed tale,
cresting over a rural hill.
Following smoke
into burning bales,
choking on the perfumes
trailing behind someone

you thought you knew well.