The Prodigal Son Poem by Mark Heathcote

Silence frustrates your prodigal sons
returning to a shut door a bosom,
left outside your chambered—bullion
their names worth remain still a misnomer?
Through a keyhole, they see chinks of light
yet-where, there's a protruding key
that light disintegrates out of sight
out of view, that's how it is with you.

Don't get me, wrong we look for an entrance
we want to lodge open our syncretic eyes
collapse any walls and inherit your skies.
In the near future, we'll have descendants
locked vaulted in tombs to be opened
but yet there you are, Father a keyhole
a chick of light never eroded
radiantly gold, waiting for us to behold.