A cannonball of light punches through night fog.
Not a star but a light house turning and winking out
of sight to chase the shade away from distant paths.
And just as eyes adjust, the light has gone again.
Tepid walkers, drawn like moths to fire, march
with force in light but kneel in doubt when it fades out.
Afraid at first the beacon’s gone forever like a dead sun.
Their eyes in panic, scan for any twinkle to follow.
There a star shines. Dim but steady nagging
whispers say instead to march its course.
And in the sickly wet embrace of night without a far off
blast of light to fortify bones to stand with hero’s courage
I adjust course
This path is sound and wise.
Close enough to the first
light when I found my eyes
drawn in and my soul cursed
to look to distant skies.
Can this star slake my thirst?
Best think a smaller size..
Just steps.. Survival first.
But at night I hear cries
from walkers hearts that burst.
The weight just seems to rise
with each step but the worst
part is my selfish lies
that this path is coerced,
not a weak compromise:
to walk forward easier.
Like we who gave up are seers.
Chiding fools who chased the light.
Ashamed ours ne’er shone so bright.
Once more the night sky is riven clean through.
The source is different? No, only I have moved.
Following some pin-lit star, now it’s further still.
Drawn in, how could those dim twinkles compare?
Fatigue wearing heavy like a storm soaked coat.
Trudging surefooted now, even in darkness
but with every footfall the world is more bleary.
The path finally right but the vessel worn weary.