The Prodigal’s Black Box

The matter lost
In the slow concussion
Gentle and steadfast
At the rate of age
And inevitably sure
Is that gravity leaves
A downturn In
The arc of your high
Fireball trajectory
Surely a light against
The sky burned bright
Then out leaving soil
In a barren field scarred
With ashes and debris
To reflect another
Light that still lands
Upon the consequences
Of lessons unlearned
Inadequacy unconfessed
And peace unfound
Tired of feeding pigs, yet
You never made it home