The Return

Tumbled like an infant, with closed eyes,
Fists holding the blanket, oh so tightly.

Curled in pain, like a maimed knot,
Sailors of dark sea, overturning surfs.

We return, from overgrown fields,
Years of sick unused me, behind.

A task, a struggle, a judgment, a job,
Lots of arrows to learn to shoot from.

Life smelling like fumes from dead remains,
Still burning, as fresh as we left before.