Dear prodigal you are my son and I
Supplied you not your spirit but your shape;
All Eden's weath arrayed before your eyes,
I fathomed that you wanted to escape.

And though I only ever gave you love,
Like every child you've chosen to rebel;
Uprooted flowers and filled the holes with blood
(Ask for not whom they toll the solemn bells).

But child of dust, to mother now return,
For every seed must die before it grows,
And though above the world may toil and turn,
No prying spade will find you here below.

Now safe beneath their wisdom and their feet,
Here I will teach you, truly, how to sleep.

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I've felt weird lately. It's not a bad weird, not a bad weird at all. Just a weird weird. Lately, I've had my hope back, confidence back, not hatred, not bitterness, just confidence, and I guess it necessarily roots from my hope and incites a happiness, a very odd, a very alien happiness, because I can honestly say I don't ever remember feeling this sort of happiness ever before in my life.