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Pilgrim
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Only On a Sunday.... I remember you, pilgrim
We danced an old man's dance and
cracked the mirrors in heaven
I see you have made martrys of
your pale hands,
a last distraction for your
displacement in my cheap heart
We weep for the eggshells and
the ocean that will not crawl to our feet
I know you, still.
Our souls are the epitomy of armor and
shield,
dashing forever the arrows of our youth
It is the hint of rain that
brings me
to you.
We will not forget the trace,
the mark,
the beauty of this forbidden land
pilgrims never do.
