a shell of the homeward bound soul

Turning home with neither want or worry,
staring at the fast approaching horizon,
no breath, no word, no thought of divination;
to sleep, no mercy in nighmarish places.

The tides fade in the deep abyss of the mind,
ripping through history's judgments;
no worthy rhetoric, no recovery of knowledge, or thought,
nothing to ease the pain of forgotten.

Listening in secret, such foolishness.
Doubt is king, blood hungry and savage,
hacking the breain wtih merciless conviction;
skeptics and disbelief crumbling resolve,
a shell of the homeward bound soul.