Darkest Night

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being abides,

from which I struggle not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which the scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind,

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn.

I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered and I roamed through the wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice directed me:

-Live in the layers, not on the litter-

Though I lack the art to decipher it,

I am not done with my changes.