A Dark Path Against a Barren Plain
Eric Bonholtzer
The mountain stands like a man against the horizon of dark stars.
Dead space fills the barrens before it, the path wending
across the fruitless expanse, twisted switchbacks leading
upon senseless folding, an ever forward ageless progression.
There are no pilgrimages here, only pilgrims set against the storm-torn sky
as they wend their way toward inexorable destination. Twisted thorn trees
clutter and clutch, tearing spirit, soul, body and garment.
Timeless lashes upon the backs of burdened beasts with their worldly possessions
Tightly gripped like crosses held to their chests, as the only choice
drives them forward. The watching moon has long since come and gone.
“When will we be there father?” It was an innocent question from impressionable eyes
watching a man, bent and broken, a tear trickled through stubble.
A shake of the head and the boy fell silent. No one really knew.
But these were masses, the huddled tired streams of rags and tatters
torn, unmended threads tying them, not in unity but parts of a whole
Eyelets and minarets with their voyeuristic hypnotic gaze
Mesmerizing, entrancing and inviting even as they repelled.
“Will it be home again when we get there?”
The words fell upon still air
No answer because he himself didn’t know
Dejected eyes shaded, saying only, “Onward we go.”
