There Is No Place Like Home Poem by Bill Cantrell

A poet rises from the dead,
nature greets him with embrace
The poet is a newborn child,
with lipstick written all over his face

Songbirds go to singing
the sacred hymn of life
A spark becomes the giving sun,
warming the cold bones in my back

For I lost my pen, some time ago,
in the the prime of inspiration
In the abyss, I shared the maggots bed,
they devoured my hope as their daily bread

The imploding moment inside a pen,
bows to the black hole sun
This is the moment that poets fear most,
once inspiration becomes undone

Yet, this is the price, all poets must pay,
accepting the bad with good
They both have their turn, again and again,
As the tides run away, they return with the wind

Yet, now I am dreaming in colors again
True is the saying, "There's no place like home"
The harvest is ready, the sickle is sharpe
The gloom has departed, along with the dark