THE MARCH TO DESTINY
never ends in defeat for the desperate souls that see through the haze a Lighthouse,
sea washed and dreary stone in desolation’s darkness.
It isn’t the light that spurs the Trident to the call,
but the darkness, the fear, the reach for the unknown.
I dabble in known respect because I can’t conjure up the truth.
It plagues my heart’s beating moments and ruptures my tendons in spurts of rampage bewilderment.
Never underestimate the sparrow, the hawk’s beak is its teller of doom. But,
to the destiny, was it not the intention, drawn as a picture, known, as a face,
that appears in the mirror and swoops down on the
escarpment to linger and relish that moment of spinning light? – Sinz