The Man Of Ash And Rust The Torn Thread

Now that the thread is torn, a Pilgrim I’ll be no more. 



I have fallen out of love with this ancient and decrepit construct. 

Bounds of obligation conspire to keep my hands so firmly tied 

as I search for growth and I search for life 

I grow so fucking tired of those spiral tales. 

Must I repeat myself so many times 

for my point to be made and my words to be heeded? 


 

Perhaps it’s time to lay myself truly bare. 

But mistake me not for idiot flesh, who would cast his writing unto fools. 

This was never for you. 



For in pilgrimage there is an injury. 

And there is despair that so readily one would see the other dredge up imagery so biblically, 

flagellating lyrically my sense of self for your petty entertainment.



And as the words become more strained, 

I’ve come to find and appreciate the quality of journey’s end 

even if only for its own sake.
 



I mean, after all, such arduous and fitful ways into the deep 

would be wasted if I did not summarise and elucidate
this curious circle that began so long ago. 



It matters not who it’s for, 

or who it benefits. 



But once the thread is torn, there can be no going back. 

May the bridges burnt light the way forwards. 

Might the thread, once torn, transmute lead into gold. 




For the betterment of my soul, 

a Pilgrim I’ll be no more.