Regular Journeys

My compass seems tied like lead weight around my feet,
Telling me to walk further. Climb still higher. Yet the weight
Seems weightless. Endless freedom tied to my back
Like the cheap gauze angel wings of a little girl.

My feet ache, tired, a weary walk attempting to escape
The real world. The real places of my life. The school,
The kitchen, the Starbucks. Escaping from regularity.
From obligation. The real world hiding its face from mine in its shame.

Trees cower in the heat. A golden shimmer
Seems almost transcendant. There is no escape here either,
Besides the war outposts and ancient concrete gunposts.
I fear finding a dead man.
All metres away from Mary Magdalene.

Religion and war hiding together. Alone.

Suddenly, a moment where even this strange world
Decides to hide its tired face. Yet, this is not a real world.

A place where religion hides from the sun and yet is in its centre.
Flame heat mutates into frozen arches, strange monsters
Beaming down with glaring faces. There are no houses. No reality.
You walk here. You may only walk away.

Dry grass laps against stone walls. A door turns to the face of a
Dying God. Slowly He falls. I watch. The gargoyles stare deeper.
I smile. Somehow, death is warmer, magical. I light a candle.
Try to resurrect the dead Gods. It doesn’t work.

Yet I see higher. The dome, beautiful. Alone.
Stunning in its solitude. The arches defy anything.
Weak. Yet strong. A place of opposites. Of hiding.
Of fear. Of disguise. Of life.
A place of dreams.