Thirty years of roads
that twisted, doubled
bombed into rubble
home again, lost - alas
some men have never been boys
He yields to the right
else friends will talk
blindsided by leftists
who left him in guilt
confused, infused
with 5 o'clock news
lost and bound for home - alas
Some men will never be boys
Of talking trails
and wysteria's wails
the rage of ranges
in the midsummer morning
They come to me so easily
when I come away from me,
when I slip off this filthy skin
and artificial senses fail
I hear their voice for the first time
in the void of ego's echo,
the whispers building to crescendo
like snowmelt rushing
even as the self recedes
I live alone in the After Eden
with the taste of fruit lingering.
And even the yearning has ceased,
breathing fear through my limbs
and malice in the mirror
Yet . . fear is an anchor
without which the After Eden
becomes a sea of madness
