Such fog filled streets of chilly slumber
like a ghostworld illuminated windows
erase all sleep.
Modern cobblestones and memories
everywhere a shadow of its past
but future still holds
more reason than doubt.
What names have been given the trees
that so long they sleep in green covers
their arms giants that hold up the sky.
Too soon I left to return to colonies
consumerist cultural wasteland
possessions hold me still to
that place I once called home
But when tides turn and west winds blow again
I will return to haunt your parks and fields
your stars signed skies and sleepless nights
I will hold you, and in your arms
I will be free