There is no voice or comfort here at the end of the earth. No warm smile, lover's caress, no gentle cosset to still the Mind and soothe the hearts ceaseless prattling and worries. Just the glow of the sun on skin stretched taught over rough Muscle like smooth paper over strings of fired clay, the voice Of the wind and nothing more as it eddies and flings itself Blindly over you and out to exhale like breath from a newborn Over the cliff down the the grey-stone-sea-soup below.
The weight that has settled so snugly to my back (bent like straw, bending like young trees in the summertime who have not yet found the strength to stand upright) weighs me down More and more as the days wind by like spent slivers of wood Beneath the edge of time's expertly wielded blade where I am A splinter caught on the edge, dividing right down the middle Beneath the ever increasing pressure of time's craft-crafted hand.
You come through in scraps of paper, scents caught prisoner on the Nomadic wind, visions that just forth from the unchanging solitude Like mountains that stop this wanderer dead in his tracks.
The distance is so long, the need so inane. How do I begin though, to cross this divide, To walk the length and breadth of this chasm, To endure the shadows that creep up like carnivores In the night, to ignore the bitter cold that slips a Knife into my side and rends my vitals to senseless Piles of red and pink, to bear the exile that such a journey Would impose?
The answer it seems, is simple enough. A tool for me to use, a talisman for me to recite In the empty hours and days and weeks and months That are ready to unfurl before my feet like a satin curtain. I will bear the pilgrimage ahead with my spirits held high, My will is strong, my mind is set, I will carry on Because love will not quit.