Poem: 'The Road to Dusty Death'

 by Oscar Mellers

Photograph by the author

Muddy boots haunt an everlasting path

That stretches past living comprehension:

A paradoxical problem leading from here to there,

But I can still argue with my eyes yet.

Choosing a direction proves difficult,

When either could mean certain doom,

But also a chance to peel back the topsoil,

And earn riches beyond greatest value.

Upon myself, after it all, hangs shredded cloth,

Torn apart by your tribulations and my trials,

By your decisions and my ill-prepared response,

And by your sword and my blood.

On the brow of a friend rests two droplets of sweat,

Expelled not by the prospect of leaving, nor arriving, but travelling: 

Of travelling beyond a simple realm, or

One of sense and of reasoning.

The path is caked in damp grass with room for growing yet,

And on the banks I see written the words that hallmark our existences.

Somehow, next to me, the thousand other shoes read the alternate.

A few could match mine, but reactions are as unique as the stars in dangerous night.

But one thing crawls at the ends of my spirit:

The end of all this is incomprehensible.

The end of all this is revival.

The end of all this is home.