Where the Footsteps End
March ten paces due north Left, right, left—and so on and so forth. You’ll trip on the bones of goals long denied Each broken skull a silent mark Each fading star a dream that died. March ten paces to the west Through marshes of loss, where old loves rest The mire grips, the roots have torn Hide the heartbeat in your chest From every bond that curdled to scorn. March ten paces to the east And arm yourself against these beasts They spawn, they sharpen, raise their swords You block, deflect, and bend the strikes Expectations marching in their hordes. March ten paces to the south Descend into the ruin’s mouth Broken keepsakes line the floor Their dust recalls what time conceals Mistakes reborn to haunt once more. So I stand in the center, the safest of all Laughing at whispers the dead still recall The air is still, the borders defined No burdens, no battles, no shackled past Stay here with me, it’s safe, it’s fine.
Somewhere between the relationships that faded to gray, the ghosts of old choices, and the tangle of expectations that multiply like Hydra heads, I found myself writing this poem.
It came from this phase of life I’m in where it’s almost too easy to look around at everything that has piled up—dreams that have fizzled, relationships that have soured, mistakes that have lingered—and think: maybe I’ll just stay here, ya know? Just build a nest out of the wreckage and call it home.
But of course, that’s the trap. Stagnation feels safe until I realize it’s just another kind of prison.
This poem is me staring at all the borders I could build around myself and asking…what happens if I don’t move?
P.S. I’m not sure what story I’m writing next, so it’ll be a surprise for all of us. That’s the nice (read: nail-biting) part about creativity sometimes. Not knowing.
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Thank you - a beautiful poem and so much food for thought :-)