He knows of no return.
The littered pathway lies empty,
His baggage, the truest illusion.
No map marks the false path
to thorns and dragons,
Guarding the golden fruit,
that inflames and sharpens hunger.
It is a pilgrimage to make alone, though
shifting winds guide in unseen ways.
Sometimes like fire, it warms my bones.
I stop when I am ready,
When I no longer think I know who I am.
When there is no choice left,
But to slowly dissipate
Like morning mist, now gone.
Love waits patiently
As truth is reborn
-entwined
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