step lightly cross the stony path, past the crooked trees
that cannot live in such thin air, us weathered travelers
enshrined in myth; the tavern whisperings of those who say
they touched the mountain’s groaning heart.
we are just passing through, stumbling past the peeling crosses
of those neglected by god’s mercy, marking ourselves
against the spirits they say huddle in the piles of stone.
the wind is our slave driver, blowing our resolve just out of reach;
the match-like flickering of our courage, casting out the demons
that dance on the cavern walls before being swallowed by the darkness.
Are we alive or dead or somewhere in between?
it's the dreamlike quality of a mind dragging its footsteps,
enthralled by the ferocious indifference of the night sky.
Come child, the wind whispers, take my hand
and let me lead you into oblivion.
