My life led to a trail
and the trail led to a ship
then the ship went asail
and my life became a trip.
The trip led to a port
and the port led to a house,
a house of just the sort
full of secrets born of doubts.
So my life became a secret
and slipped through many doors
in a solemn, scared sequence
through the house of many floors
and wended through a crack
that caused a window pain
to know its own existence
is transparent as the rain
where my life became a drop
and the drop became a storm
that poured its wrath atop
far mountains, dark and worn.
And I found my life a stream
and astream I found a brook
that flowed through seven dreams
where the trees all wept and shook.
And there were seven moons
that sat on seven hills
and on them seven runes
that spoke of seven ills.
Then the brook became a river
that rolled across the plain
by the graves of the givers
and the graves were all aflame.
There my life became a pyre
that sat upon a bier
where cities made of wire
rose abandoned on the sere
deserts of the cursed
immersed in a mirage
where faith is but a thirst
versed in maquillage,
that masked the naked face
that my life had become,
effaced and lowercase
and allowed a tear to run.
And the tear made a trail,
a trail that never ends
existing only to begin
that which begins
― again.
