“The years the locusts have eaten
will be restored”

“They have not been wasted”

“And I will make good, what the
swarm has eaten”

The following is a story of the travels of a
Wanderlust, and her search for a peaceful
land. From her journeys through dry arid
wastelands to one of life giving contentment!

It was as if I was blown by the creatures of
the wind, on wings singed from the heat of
Unable to stop and become part of this
earth. With my eyes, scanning for some kind
of life, but everywhere I looked there was

The years of my life had become consumed
by the blight of an oncoming army,
devouring everything in sight.

But there is a favorite quote
“I will restore to you the years the swarming
locust has eaten”

“My great army you shall know and I will
make good the years that the swarm has

The following is part of a story I have
written in metaphoric prose and

“Sitting on a bench, reflecting on
Her life, there is a longing in her
Heart, couldn’t it have been
Different than this one she has
The formative years have not
Been wasted, the bumps and
Ridges of dry desert sands, truly
Have become bridges to a better
This is a work in progress, a
Prophecy in time. She presses
On with hope, that what she
Cannot see will one day come to

The house stands strong and tall.
Proud and free it seems to be.
Leaves swept bare, not a weed
To be seen, shrubs neatly trimmed,
All in all this place has a happy face.
But windows and doors are locked,
No one can go in or come out.
A girl resides here, it is dark.
Shades are drawn, as she sits all day
Long sewing on her ascension gown.
A spotless house, not even a mouse
Would dare to venture in.
The clock’s pendulum strikes on the
Hour, announcing she must hurry to
Obey her rituals, to sweep and dust.
The kitchen table with empty chairs
Is saddened. In the cupboards are
Antagonists chewing.
Lowly locusts with their flatulence
Bellies and bulging eyes, inch their
Way through grubby cabinets…
Tired at the end of the day she hopes to
Rest, but this is when memories
Have their ways. Tossing and turning,
She can no longer bear being eaten
A cry is heard from the disheveled
Cat, as smoke comes through the
Door. The room at the very top
Bursts into flames… The room she
Could never go in.
She is awakened and quickly rises,
Picking up her dress, running to the
Door, it falls on the floor. It is sad,
This house is removed, but it
Has to be.

Her Thoughts Must Be Restored To
Their Rightful Place!
The scavengers of earth, devouring
Their prey, now bow in solemnity to the
Sacred Word of antiquity.
“The years the locusts have eaten
Will be restored, they have not been
Letters she has hidden behind
Are now words of poetry seeking
Her mind.
Pages are bursting to be heard. The once
Disarrayed cat sits by the fire in
Contentment. The puppeteers have
Relinquished their ties with shears
Sharp enough to break the lies.
The cabinets are no longer stirring,
Gnawing has ceased as the locusts
She did all she could to make herself
Clean. This girl of dust is no longer
A wanderlust. Her house has become
A home, glowing within.
She would like to invite all to come
And eat, there is plenty of room at
The table, a table draped in white
Linen, bread and drink freely given.
Candlelight reflecting faces of
Those no longer hidden!

Portions of this poem are from
My book ‘Wanderlust’

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