Place one sandled foot
before the other.
On to pilgrimage!
So saints,
So scoundrels,
So prima donnas,
and conquerors.
Stand at the gate
pulled back by cords
of suckling
of warm quilts
of growing quilts
and unconquered fears.
But,
turning back to familiar rooms now
is to die.
Life is when cords are cut,
when soul scrapes, bleeds
on the roads rocks.
So, walk where you must.
Close the gate behind you
and walk.
Poems by Ken 