The Path


A familiar feel for their feet

The basalt cobblestone has become their home

Souls bound to the march

Step by step with nowhere to go


Lips sealed by wire

Silence haunts the weaving stones.

Their grayscale skin stretched so thin across their bones


Their ember eyes once were ignited

Now just ashened by rain

Their own smog surrounding their thoughts

And clouding their brain


Adorned by hooded robes

Their only individuating detail from head to toe

Smoke trailing from beneath the shadow


An endless moonlight, with no deterrence from night, subtly illuminates this life. The husks, all alone on this weaving and winding path, walk with an aching stride towards a mysterious goal. The light never giving enough to see a possible end in sight. The path consumes every bit of their precious soul.


Tender bones and shattered minds

A hidden truth among a million lies

The heavy mist

disguising a world beyond their eyes


Their silent voices sit inside

Defeated in the fight

They drown so easily in the night


The echoes of marching

Ring in their ears

Dulling their senses throughout the years

Yet they stay for the familiar feel


Constrained without chains

A gloomful plague surrounding their face

The black path conquering their days


The storm continues it’s marching drum, soaking their skin to the bones. Bodies trembling beneath the robes as the entities fall in line once more. But there is another noise. A noise in their heads that keeps their minds preoccupied. A treacherous noise not of their own. A voice speaking without structure or warmth. This voice sways them of all lies. Heads never looking to the side, they fear a loss of life. So they follow the voice, heads never wandering, as they march in lines towards a mythical paradise. For restless minds and shadowed eyes cannot truly be the only life. There must be something on the other side.

Yet, perhaps the lie is better than the other side. A doubt is brought to life. A doubt that takes command of a scattered few. Their exhausted legs can no longer take the journey that has enslaved their existence. Turning their heads to the side, with such a view, their bloodied feet cease to continue. This moment, starting a flicker in their ashened eyes, ignites a small flame back to life.