Prodigal:

Mountains of words and totems of theories
Fall dusty and forlorn
With a soft, timid, and unheard thump
To the bare, trackless ground 
at their foundations

Currents of emotion and oceans of energy
Sweep through churning
Tearing the sacrilege to dust
Leaving simply what was there
Before I came

Into this wasteland I return
To stare upon the striking skeletons strewn
No tear from my wrinkled socket falls
No tombstone to tell the tale
Will I build with my bare boned body

Tonight the moon enchants me

For the unknown ocean owns my soul
Holding golden dreams of old, holy nights of love
And sometimes I can see
That the sun and the stone and the softly windblown ocean
Are already as they should be.

—Dana Laratta