Getting Back To The Heart Of You
The distant cries of our childhood songs fade behind our dirt-crusted footsteps, as we trudge through the long, dark day of responsibility.
The calls for daddy and mommy seem to be another language, now - and we walk onward.
Alone.
But in many ways, who we were then is who we are now. No one can seem to interpret the echoes in the canyons of your mind - they are imperceptible and beyond the worlds of light and sound.
But those echoes are pieces of us - careening of the high, rock walls of our past and reminding us in a far-away, weepy tone of the people we once were.
The lands between the worlds of dreaming and waking seem to be drawing closer. We sleep more than we used to. We can't run as long as we once could. We weather and we wilt.
But after the long, entangling and often overwhelming cosmic joke of this life, we will get it right. We will watch the movies of our memory fly by like billboards on a southbound greyhound bus. The dim light of day, fading all around us, into a grapefruity reflection of the sun - the sun of our youth.
As it sets into an orange technicolour sky, we wave it goodbye and watch it fall.
If we went back, could we change the mistakes? Or are the mistakes all part of the many autumn colours of this wild ride through the seasons?
Our childhood is a passageway of past continents - forever broken and placed differently on to the map of our adulthood. We float on icebergs of morality and consciousness, but all the while, we have no direction. No anchor. No roots.
We remember the poem, but we, much like the author, continue to write our Ode To A Grecian Urn.
