by Brent Hightower
I wrote what I felt and it burst in flames,
I turned the page and it was wet with tears,
These words burn and fall in a terrifying darkness,
At the end of an epoch, with just this little lamp,
So I brew the tea and search the tea leaves,
And in the gloaming chant the cipher of the doors.
Sporadically, the shrouded road is lit by lightning,
A thousand miles before us and at every turn.
Pity these poor pilgrims, these refugees from hope,
Without star, nor compass, nor even swath of northern moss,
lacking rumors of good men, nor yet the certainty of thieves.
Fearful and visionary is the night we walk this road.
And so bereft, I sing this lilting song of cheer,
And trim the little lamp to guide our way.
For you my love, I would burn in Hell a map in stone,
But I am old and Hell now varies every year,
So your heart is all you have to guide you,
Your heart, and this blazing light of love.
Were I a master of the filigree, on the wall of doom
I could not describe this track we've traced.
With tears in my eyes, my love, I hold this paltry gift,
This candle I have made for you, this hopeless little rune.
Watch for the dryads who keep the locks of time,
The torch and valid map I'll leave before the gates.
Last updated November 13, 2015