I am walking the labyrinth. My destination, I know not. My journey moves me forward. I will not, shall not slide back. Behind me are my little deaths, shards of me, glimpses of self, hidden in the matrix, lattice of my existence. Behind me, years of suffering, not all mine, but of me. Ahead, i.e.d.’s I’ve buried deep, that I might remember. Turning back now would let slip a hypocrite and liar. I will march on, searching for truth, walking ever so lightly. Words mean nothing, said the poet. Tongue’s too small, the battle’s coming, red and furious... I steady my legs. © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)