Walking Home

I know the way home.

I can see it
through
the blinding fog
of heavy darkness
swaddling
my trembling self;

I can hear
the drumbeats
of my heart
moving to
a crescendo
with every step;

I can taste
the sea-salt air
that stings and riles
my rusty form
steeped in beliefs
steeled over time;

I can smell
the vestiges
of my old self
after a moulting,
ripping the fibres
of a blood-stained past;

I can feel it
in the contours
of my innards,
filled with a rush
of fresh blood
proclaiming a new birth.

Yes. I know the way home.