With time’s passage, though, what worth would such things be 

without a pen with which to write, 

nor a voice with which to speak 

if I found you gazing back at me 

as the second night descends?
 



For time steals us all away one day, does it not? 


It robs us of the things we want to hold onto the most. 

And believe me when I say 

that it lies in wait for no man or woman to make their haste. 

Just as easily, a thousand years would go to waste. 


The work is all the same before the eye of God, 


is it not?

 



Perhaps it is the plot I’ve lost? 


Perhaps I’ve lost my Way? 


At this point are they not the same?
 

Am I not treading the One and only Pilgrims’ Westward Way 

to do the workings of the One and only Thing? 


Have I not come this very way in search of higher things at stake? 





I have seen it manifest, I have seen it ache, 

I have been the squander, and I have been the mirth 

as their eyes avert from heavens sent to guide them to their birth.
 

As they foster their impurity and mock the very Way 

in which the lurking and the murmuring 

shall speak from night to day 

will they choke upon their poison and speak the poison word 

while not manifesting the purity they sought. 



O’, what a shame,
 

O’, what a tragedy it is for these words to fall upon deaf ears 

doomed to never reach their subject.
 



O’, what a fool am I to have laboured and believed 

in such petty human things, 

when it was clear from the beginning; 

that we are westward souls? 




I pray the night might take me.
 

I pray the night might take me westward bound. 

To confront who we are, to confront the shadow self, 

I pray the night might take me. 



If I must die a thousand deaths and die a thousand more 


as nameless, faceless, restless men 

who nightly reach deaths door
 

then pray this lantern lays still lit to adorn my very soul. 



She told me once… 

“This is what happens in the mountains 

where the light can’t reach.” 



So I go westward, westward bound.