The Horn That Calls You Home

There is a phrase that bids farewell,

Said softly at the door.

Seeing off the severed halves

Of a soul that daily splinters.

This often-uttered oath

Of three words thickly woven

Is a wreath to warm the heart

That each day is doomed to part.

Not a sentence, but a spell;

A ward against a world of harm,

A knot to keep the cord of fate

Wrapped ‘round us one more day.

Yet, time’s a rising tide

And we are footsteps in the sand.

The Ferryman finds us all,

No matter what our plans.

That is why this wreath

Is hung daily at the door.

Not mere words we wish to say,

But a soul’s return to sender.

And presented with those words

That a thousand times have thatched

The leaky roof of love,

Death will hand us each a horn.

As we board his golden boat

At the harborage of the heart,

He’ll have us hold up to the ear

The horn and then we’ll hear:

A countless lovers’ choir sing

Those same words as they were

When the universe awoke and wept

And wove itself a wife.

The horizon hoists its anchor.

The shoreline of life will fade.

But the Ferryman will know where to,

He’ll hear the song of me and you.