Literature
pilgrimage
We went work-weary, whisper-wrecked,
skin dripping like acid off our necks
– grit, and sweat – our white, pockmarked
sun hanging low in the sky. Stark
even against the dark blue,
silhouetted peaks rose looming
in the distance like a grotesque row of saluting
soldiers. We trembled at the view
with the cold familiarity of mutts
caught too often looting in back alleys,
the whiplash certainty in our soured guts
of being casualties.
We went, our feet as compasses
pointing to "far" and "away", the twisted specter
of the firing squad always over our shoulder,
blurring our sight. We left a trail of ashes
and blistered hope. We l