Prodigal Son

Staring at a cross of splintered wood
My sins washed away through Christ's own blood
All my blessings gone, though my mind it wanders on
Going home in my memory….
Between the years and the miles
I am broken and down
Bless me father, where do I begin
On my hands and my knees,
I go crawling back home,
To find absolution within

Eighteen years old, but not yet a man
With misplaced ideologies
Recognizing only God as my equal
Left home and disgraced my family

With a dream in my head and a restless soul
Sensing I would soon be free
I took to heart my granddads fables
They made up the core of my identity

For eight long years I tramped through the fallout
Of nuclear society
The underclass
Forgotten mass in a nation of revelry

Fare thee well, my old dear friend
The road goes ever on, but I am going home
Back to where it all began

In a filthy rundown tenement
I set out to spread God's name
I thought the word would start the fire
And my voice would fan the flame

But I soon learned that in this hopelessness
A great many things went unsaid
My first lesson was that good intentions
Aren't gonna keep you warm and fed

With no recourse I took a job at the packing house
No one who I could edify
As my dreams like leaves in autumn
Disappeared before my eyes