A path is laid before my feet.
I must journey; trust this dusty queue.
Good-bye friends. I will now be nothing
but a name.
I will squint, be sun-blinded.
The vibrant garden will be a swirling pond.
Splashes of color, a minted Monet painting.
My spectacles, please.
For long nights, I'll have sunshine,
burning the candle so far at one end,
That the other will be ashes, will be char.
My lantern, if you will.
Callouses must thicken, become stone.
I must collapse, sacrifice to stand again,
see rows of trees, know mountains by name.
Tie them tight, servant.
I will see what is true but not apparent.
I fleck the air with light of that which brings most fear.
My body will permit this cladestine endeavor.
Something is missing.
I cannot feel the glorious triumph of success.
Truth, light, and strength will not lead me to
what dissappears beyond the hill: my destination,
If I have no destination.
