At the Pace of the Starting Line
My awkward, graceless walk
is drawn along the thin line that binds me to painful times
and by the arrogant cerulean abyss
that clouds my future, already soaked in crimson.
If I’m headed the wrong way, I’d rather stay aware,
tracing infinite steps across transparent bridges
of uncertainty and doubt — so many, so endlessly flickering —
they echo and distort my destiny.
In my melancholic stride that boils within,
I climb the mountains of these invisible peaks.
In fear, there’s no future I can summon
without dying in the void of my intangible gifts.
I am not required to remain on this physical plane.
I am a slave to fate — an unfailing predestiny;
layer upon layer of metaphysical reasoning
cut deep into my all-too-tangible flesh.
I go, at the pace of the starting line,
in search of a world where I do not exist.
I walk, step by step, into the dawn,
toward the distant mirage in my sight.
At the pace of the starting line,
I travel, transcend, dream, and die
with a memory that shall never be refined.
Lying still, to the eternal dream, I cry for help.
From here to the pace of my unhappy existence,
hopes bloom and wither in the garden;
a heart impaled upon the fleur-de-lis,
at the starting line of my end.