A decade is a long way to walk.
I feel every step in my aching feet,
My jarring joints, my squinting eyes
That have come to know
The midday Sun far too well.

Perhaps it is for the dead
That I walk: to prostrate myself
So that they may finally
Stand tall and arise.

Or perhaps it is the living
Whose prayers I carry:
Begging for mercy in
A merciless world.

The depth of my heart knows better:
This pilgrimage is my own, and so
Is for both. I am somewhere between
The two states of humanity,
Clinging to the present but
With one foot in the past.

Part of me refuses to live,
Refuses to leave a past filled
With dubious joys, even though
All that remains there is the rubble
Of what I destroyed.

When I arrive at last, will my
Final step be a leap of faith?
Or is there nothing in this world
That can make me believe?

04/19/2020

Author's Note: Winchester; Lichfield.

Posted on 04/25/2020
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