No sooner had I crossed that bridge,
come to it in innocence,
fantasies not one bit like
the trueness of the place,
the winds began to whip and buck
and toss me to the ridge.
There’s been no time to look behind
or view on down the mount,
as so it seems this part of town
is famous for the bay of hounds
from hell intent to fiee the bounds
of flesh and blood and mind.
Where has been my calming space
for deep consideration?
Where the mat to find my place?
The howling stream of soul survivors
soaks me up and turns to torrent,
picking up the pace.
Change is here, so seeming strange
I can’t remember otherwise.
All is now bent forward, over
after, last, and everlasting
life behind, our new and final face
we wear approaching death.
Make it mine, the face I find -
it blooms without my knowing,
glows and grows my understanding,
awed but barely comprehending.
Final face with scars alight
and fascinated eyes.
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