Like stepping through sepia
photographs, déjà vu 
pooling in frayed sneakers
as I pace through streets
heavy with revolving-door
families bathed in streetlight halos,
late-night arguments heard
through cheap drywall,
plywood crossbeams gutted-
these houses are hollow gods,
we scaled their ribs as children,
promethean in search of self
always reaching for the pantheon
of adulthood, we combed
our lives for something worth striving 
for, I surrounded myself with artists
furthering their craft, molded myself 
in their image, a faltering echo
of a poet finding his voice in the cacophony
only to lose it for years,
meandering through the wreckage
of a life without direction, ragdoll
body washing up on the shore of June,
adrift in a new sea of voices
singing songs of sorrow and certainty
that when day breaks we’ll find
salvation in the wake of abaddon
and it’s like coming home again.