Trails - Part III

Jack Frost has preceded me

whose sparkling brush has painted the edges

of green mountain fern and freeze dried leaves

arrayed in faded colors and brittle spines

like fallen soldiers of some long forgotten battle.

Fog the weaves a trail of its own

as I pant staccato rhythm to keep my pace

fades into the milky haze of highland mist

and beads of salt flavored effort

drip from the waterlogged band of my hat

tracing tiny rivers of exhaustion

each brackish trickle

begs me to suspend the journey

even if only

to quench my thirst

and sate my hunger.

I pause long enough

to still the temporal cry for sustenance

and return to the trail, the demons

of hunger and thirst sated

while other demons

darker

colder

unrelenting

demons of the heart and soul

suffer me no such relief.

War drums from centuries long dead

the cry of warriors ling since

returned to dust

the smoldering memory of

smoke and ashes assail me at every turn

and with every step.

I hear the weeping of souls

who linger, balanced on the precipice of eternity

afraid to proceed, unable to turn back

their destiny mixed as if in blood

dotting the path I wander aimlessly upon

afraid to proceed

unable

to

turn

back.