THE CRUX

Drawn to the crux
Through naked roads
Stained with the dying scents
Of withered dreams

I am fixed between two worlds
Heaving a deafening sigh
From the burdened old
To the stark new

The freshly scent of an allamanda
Lures me freely to the ripe grounds
Of my stoney backyard
A yard stuffed with the shame of my clan

I am drawn to traverse this alluring dream
With only a beaten compass as guide
Will you lift your lamp
To aid my leap to drier deck?

I carry with me this thin olive
Wearily feeding on the scanted hearth
Will you lift a finger to heave us ashore,
And haste my olive sprung and oil our land?

I am left at the crux
Where even Hope dare not speak
Here, you cling only to the heaves of your chest
And trust a lost eye's guidance
Through Fate's gates to splendour
Or nothingness.