The Prodigal

it has been too long. there is nothing to write of because the mind has unlearned the freedom of spontaneity. if there was one thing i dreaded to lose, it was my voice. give me a world without color, without sound, but do not deny me the faculty of my speech. and yet, now where will i find my muse? i left it here thinking the return would be easy. but the vines have grown and the thorns are sharp and in this last effort for a reunion, is it possible for the prodigal to be recognized when i myself have forgotten the way?