It's love lost in a thousand ways. The clamour of a thousand church bells go unheard. The gentle summer breeze, drifting over empty vales has no soul to enjoy its gentle caress. Every stained glass, inked with Christian fervour, is shattered to a thousand shards. Its love lost in a thousand ways. The summer rains, pass by, w'out emptying its burden on the parched plains. The emptiness of the temple sanctum, filled by ghostly fumes of a thousand incense sticks. The devotees, witness arcane rituals, bereft of any true meaning. It's a thousand meaningless chants, lost in a thousand profane ways. Children play by the hearth, not knowing what they dabble with. Fire subsumes us, in the form of youthful passion. And leaves us spent and deprived of love. This pain, is centuries old, and goes beyond the cross. Heaven and hell are just ideas, on which the devil himself plays fiddle. Its love lost in a thousand ways, in thousand satanic tunes. When the sea is rough, the captain takes the helm. His courage is brighter than the largest light tower. Look for your calling, this is your heavenly guide. This beam of ascension, shines in each as a compass true north. But none can go there, without, love being lost in a thousand ways. Its a trial by fire. A test of endurance. Each pea begs the cook, to be cooked fully. Nearly blanched. The ascetic puts himself through great hardship. And this makes Gautama, the Buddha. But effort reaches its apogee, and turns back like a spring - onto oneself. This turning back, is towards love, in one, or two or a few different ways. From that darkest hour, emerges the captains courage. The beam that we always had, in the deepest prisms of our soul. Refracted into a thousand different colors. At each end of the spectrum, was a story, whispered by the lips of a breathless angel. Those gentle lips. Those breathless words. In my heart they echoed, like joy in a thousand clamorous murmurs. I've completed the Hero's journey. And ask Campbell, for that. I'm home, at last. It has been twenty one years coming. When the lost son returned home, t'was the father that ran towards him. He loves me so dearly, and so could see me get lost. The journey was my making. Without which, could there have been, love regained in a thousand different ways?