PILGRIM
Let this be my home,
then
no looking back
all bridges burnt
anyway
with nowhere to go
but forward.
Don’t cry over jagged
rocks
that cut when you
fall.
At least you still
fall.
And frozen sheets of
ice
that slice the skin.
At least you still
feel.
No promises, then
from a barren coast
where even the sun
hides
most days in shadowy gloom.
Each inch forged by
man
slowly and painfully
one step at a time.
Tiny triumphs amid
perpetual pain
but still carving
home
deliberately chiseling
god.
