Leaving behind home – some home, at least.
Backpack, scarf, and winter coat,
Alone and youthful
In the desolate Wilderness.
Bare feet on the bitter frost,
Not a moment passing, without glancing back,
Watchful of what might come running
From the ravenous purgatory of the far North,
In search of forgone humanity.
Crossed raging rivers, and traversed flats,
Into the distance, wanting – needing
To touch frail skin, and linger in the essence,
The sweetness, and the rare euphoria
Yet, my feet, they sink too deep.
So, maybe I don’t truly want to witness
What awaits beyond the decadent Wilderness.
Beyond the air of Death Roses,
And the scent of age-old ash in the choking breeze.
You wonder… why now,
And why here… why just me?
Staring into the bleak divide – the line,
Wondering if it is a sin to see;
If life might just get a chance to freely speak.
Across the mountains,
Along the coasts of seas’,
Where whale song once bellowed,
And where men were brought to their battered knees.
I tread the lines,
Paths not taken for untold millenia.
All for touch, and all for sense?
Driven to the ends of the land, through basic intent,
With the need to lay hand upon skin-
Hear a voice whisper beside me-
Share a bed that has always been for one.
Until then, the Clouded Sun can wait.