Peregrinus

Today,

nothing speaks

of home:

fields smell of heat

and fire

and ash;

the air reveals

nothing-

no other scent, or sound,

no pathway recognizable

to my feet,

though I do remember

how to place

one foot in front of the other,

to move on

without a map,

to not know who,

or what, I am,

to give myself up

to the kindness

of strangers,

with nothing to give

in return

but my lost self.

Only darkness

offers refuge.

Not even moonlight

can return me

to me.

I burrow into the arms

of shadow,

fearing the light,

what it might reveal

to me,

of me.

*Peregrinus (Latin for someone not at home

where they are walking.)