The Prodigal
The sun shines upon the pavement, While his hands tremble in fear; Knuckles scrape on the gravel, Knees, an inch from tear; Heads up, he sees the long winding road, Those intense eyes figuring out the horizon, Tears are for children, not him, he thought, Desperation creeps slowly as time ticks on. Miles away, they rock their own earthly 'cradle', As they await their final absolution; It was never enough whatever he did, he laments, This was his chance to prove his lineage, as their son. The prodigal had once returned, ages ago, Today he does the same, Yesterday he lost them to the future, Over a mountain of saddening shame! The ground beneath groaned under his weight, As he crawled ahead a thick red line, The stained blade as his only armour, Against the rule of death; it's fine! He digs deep; the trembling hands working fast, Until he sees them (they appeared to twitch); With the wound on his neck signalling his last, He was ready for the final switch; Wields the knife an
