AntithesisOfASoul

The porch light glows soft in the murk of the fog bank, a hazy guide home for a wandering soul left out in the cold. The bayou creaks and chirps and groans around everywhere, a symphony to the ears of the one nestled in the rocking chair 'neath the porch light's warmth. The soft susurration of the well used tails as the chair adds its own notes to the air is like a soft wheezing breath before words are spoken. A soft song is sung in a hushed tone, an old hymnal once sung with youthful vigor. Now? Now it's as worn as a well loved and well used quilt, both voice and song. The youth of long ago lingers in the notes, basking in the light as if it's their first time in the air instead of decades ago being their birth. A whippoorwill cries gently in the tree across the way, and a tender breeze carries with it the scents of oleander and jasmine, of orange blossoms blushingly dancing in the wind. The rocker rails creak with a well worn rhythm, a soft bend of aged knees propel it along. The