The three-fingered Dawn, creeping slowly
over the hills and the foothills
of one's cerebellum
bleeds profusely for the loss
of all one believes in
Souls unlit by flame
untouched by passion
and unknown by others
transported
from one place to another
places within and without
places we're afraid to cry about
yet gladly call home
like E.T.
Still, though, the ship courses on
through the blood red
three-fingered waters
headed homeward like a tired sailor
headed homeward
homeward
towards Love