To the crossroads they went and saw,
Ghosts prepared meal from dry bones
And waited in spores and riches held,
A moon gazed in light; all light so rich,
Anew were the footsteps in echoes brought,
This brew of soup is last I from yond try,
Nor beg the moving roads in sand to pass,
Nor check the hooves of dead horse trodden,
More sake in bitter feel in chastised hope,
A pen I ought to try but no hand to take,
A pillar amidst the orbit of all life between,
A figure bows, more figures arose to sky,
The ladder I build for grace I weep to sigh,
A lingering cast is brought in me and life,
And all is wake in whose life I ought to take,
If not for mine, but for thine; let it be mine,
All rebirth I am shall be turf in kindled bake,
Whose road I ought to take, nor left, nor right?
No way forward, but we’re kept in mind’s jail,
So kneel me before the light and see me frail,
Oh, decades past; my hair so grey I am sorry,
I should have went, but could not have went.
Forgive my delay, I could not decide where,
Pity me for being the man who could not walk,
So pity all I am and rain me an ocean to fall,
Aghast the breech of hope is dainty glow reborn,
I shall try as an ant in utmost order prevail,
The blackest of which in blackest of all night,
Behind the blackest stone, atop the black marble,
Whose sounds unheard by those I once I was,
But He knows. But He knows what ought I am.