There are days,
and there are days.
And on some of them the past comes calling,
tugging at my coat sleeve like a little child.
Beckoning, pleading, begging for me
to return to the place that I come from.
In those days,
those long, deep days I find no solace in the light.
There are days I roll my eyes back.
They look into my mind and into my soul
and mark the points of the dealer.
Only then do they see the truth.
What is real and lurks beneath
like some cold loch's monster.
I see what I am on those days
and it is only a matter of time before I succumb.
There are days when I feel the passion rise.
A tide's swell,
bringing yearning for that action,
a junkie to the drug.
It is such a dark place but it is where I roam.
I walk in the valley
but never see the sin because part of it is me.
It is my home
and there are so many days the nostalgia,
the truth,
speak volumes to me.
Yes, one day I will return.
These are the days of my life,
the brief moment of clarity,
an open door in the light filled room
spreading its open arms to the void of anonymity.
And then like the setting sun,
on those days,
I fade to black.
