O fallen path,
O broken road,
this damaged earth’s not my abode;
tread lightly, O my worthy soul –
the Promised Land is journey’s goal.
are the wave
which crashes my shore,
washing my substance far off to sea;
are the wind
which batters my door,
deluging undertow, wearing down Me.
find it odd
that my road cannot bear
the weight which it should, and so you fume;
count it strange
that my countenance wears
a funeral pall, like a runaway tomb.
what your actions have done,
your heart, calloused over, waxes blind;
will still try
with your bullying run
to make sure that my path’s undermined.
You called, and my journey began,
a slow and tenuous slide off the lip of a slippery slope,
on a dubious road unmarked and undersigned.
Perhaps I am going to Nowhere,
that magical legendary land of broken dreams and crushed spirits.
Perhaps there is no end to this unending trek
which bloodies my feet and lames my legs
and batters my nerves til they’re raw.
Having begun, and not having arrived,
I am in the middle of
The terrain is strange and terrifying.
Dark shadows and things that creep and hiss live here.
And always the voices call.
“Give up! ”
“Are you lost? Who told you to walk this road?”
“Turn back! It’s easier going downhill than
straight up these cliffs.”
“You’ll never make it! Turn back!”
Weeping, time after time I get the urge to
on that lonely and wearisome track.
I can’t do this.
Life in the middle is too hard. Too raw. Too everything.
And at the lowest can’t, I hear a can.
It is but a whisper, just enough to raise my head
and seek the source of the sound.
And I glimpse sandalled feet,
disappearing in the murky mist just beyond my reach.
So I get up. I follow.
I remember now.
You promised an end.
You promised never to leave me.
You promised I would find my song at the end of this road.
I will answer with my feet.