Author's Note: I do not own the copyrights to the Bible.
11/30/13: Here the second poem in this collection. For those who might have looked at this before, this particular poem was posted earlier as the first chapter, but I decided that another poem fitted better in the first chapter as a type of introduction so you are welcome to go back and read it. Also, I did not care for the formatting since I had no idea how to do a line break between stanzas. So, I figured that I would just improvise. Hopefully, this layout is easier on the eyes and a little more organized. Now, I present to you the tale of a wanderer and the journey he takes, as told in metaphor.
A Wanderer's Tale
Places I've been, people I've seen,
Like the scenery drifting past me
On this river I travel of peace and chaos,
That which I call my life.
. . .
Abundant meadows, desolate desert,
Laughter and weeping, joy and sorrow,
Sometimes valleys, sometimes mountains,
One after another on this winding road.
. . .
Amidst life's brilliant grandeur,
An unspoken wistfulness lurks,
Yearning for a home of distant dreams,
A refuge amidst ever-changing currents.
. . .
So a distant traveler I have become,
Once here, then there, never again here,
Ever running towards elusive dreams,
Will-o-the-wisp of strange lands.
. . .
Ever seeking but never finding,
Cursed child driven by wanderlust,
Never to be content in lofty palaces
Nor in humble abodes.
. . .
A fool, some have sneered of my wandering ways,
Blind to all but destructive urges
Succumbing to mere shadows of desire,
Heartsick for that which could never be.
. . .
Perhaps they speak the truth,
But by such elusive pursuits I stand,
And I walk, step by step,
Until all roads have been trod.
. . .
Though there are many roads,
Far too many to count, far too many to see,
Far too many to travel upon,
Those roads are all I have.
. . .
Once upon a time, I ran,
Greedy eyes frantically roaming,
Hands eagerly touching,
Feet ever pounding.
. . .
Then I began to grow weary,
And so I walked,
Through mountains and valleys,
Never daring to stop.
. . .
Here I am now, a traveler who ever walks,
Here I shall still be, an observer who ever seeks,
Here I always was, a thinker who ever questioned,
What I may yet be, I fear.
. . .
I fear that I grow ever more weary,
That I may one day stop walking,
Till I cease to even stumble,
A cripple upon dusty trails.
. . .
But this I remember from distant past,
A mother's gentle smile, a father's strong shoulders,
A family that once held me up,
A home I once called my own.
. . .
In that family, there was spoken of a God,
The Father from Heaven above,
Who sent His beloved Son
To deliver us from our folly.
. . .
And I think I can recall,
That maybe that Son, Jesus was His name,
Promised an everlasting home,
If we would but follow Him.
. . .
These are but mere figments of memory,
Ramblings of religious zealots,
Stubborn, ever so passionate declarations,
By those naïve of life's journeys.
. . .
But sometimes such foolish words,
In moments when unspoken yearnings burn
And uncertain fears torment,
Rise from their murky depths.
. . .
In those moments I wonder,
Can long forgotten tears flow again
To touch that barren ground?
Will something grow?
. . .
If silent fortitude should ever crumble,
Can a desperate cry rise
From a raw and broken voice?
Can it touch that distant sky?
. . .
Sometimes I dare to hope,
That should such miracles ever be borne,
A bloodstained cross might bridge that gap
From lowly ground to exalted sky.
Author's Note: This is a tale of the prodigal child, the one raised in a loving Christian home who rejected his (or her) childhood faith in a destructive search for an elusive enlightenment. However, that child, now a man, has been looking in all the wrong places, leaving him more hollow and worn out with each failure. With despair looming ever closer, he remembers the lessons from a home long forgotten and silently begins to wonder.
Personally, I just wonder if that home has forgotten him. Based on my own experience, I think most certainly not. It is extremely painful to have someone you dearly love, especially your own child, reject all that you taught him and instead choose a path that leads to destruction. It is even more painful to have to stand by and watch that child destroy himself by his own choices or to not know where he is and be left wondering for so many years.
The ending is vague on purpose. Will he return to the home he has abandoned? Will he return to the faith he walked away from? Or will he continue to reject both his home and his faith? The choice is his, just as it is for every other human being who will come face to face with this fateful choice. For all the prodigal children out there, just remember that there is a loving home longing for their return. Even if they have no earthly home to return to, there is a Heavenly Father who constantly longs for their return and would gladly make a new home for them here on earth and in Heaven.