of our inheritance
are dancing us.
Though we may walk deafened
through the noisy fray, searching
the blather of strangers
for a clue.
Though wrapped in gortex, we get wet
Though stuffed with fois gras, still we hunger
Our eyeballs drowned in bluelight, the nightvisions remain
built as we are of divining rods and cones of incense cedar
each one signalling the way home.
Inner beacons beckon towards the yearning,
waiting only for the
the longing to belong
to be spoken aloud
And glowing ever homeward
ever inward to the marrow.