A poem I wrote in a dark moment

The Seeker’s Path

The seeker’s path is a path fraught with danger.

Every step, the mage could fall through the earth into an underworld of deviltry.

Around every boulder could be an enemy, behind every tree the unknown.

Dark energies that would steal his breath from him, steal his pulse.

Frequently, there is great sadness. It is not the path of comfort or happiness or peace. He walks the path alone, always alone.

Is it worth it? Could we just drink cheap beer and watch television instead?

Some could, some do.

I apparently cannot.

Spirit uses me like a rich man uses a whore.

I am not my own, though I try to make decisions and choose the life I want.

When finished with me, Power will toss me aside like a spent shell, like a bent nail pulled crooked and twisted from the world, left to rust and decay.

There is no real path. Sometimes He lights the way for a step or two, never allowing me to see the destination.

I control nothing of importance here.

Could I get a smile here? Could I have some love?

None of this shit really matters, the land, my few possessions.

They will all be taken from me or used against me.

I may be beaten with them.

My blood is what She wants, the marrow of my bones.

I will be a spirit released, flying over the earth like thistle down on the wind.

Can I do that while I yet live?

Is that what She demands of me?

Tell me, for Christ’s sake. At least tell me.

The blackgreen of the forested north slope is frosted with snow caught for a time in the branches.

A somber mood is created by pre-dawn dark snow clouds, flakes of snow, falling like they know where they are going.

“I know the key I am trying to turn is in myself”, Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar.