Sunday, November 7, 2010

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.
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