Now upon this day of scathe,
I walk forth through the public eye
where beings of stone journey.
They are not fortified,
they are not impenetrable,
they are molded of the potter's hands-
an image they so desire to fit.
What causes such deception?
Beings of stone who crumble like the
vase of vanity that shatters when impacted with truth.
And they flee when my solid, cold body
is seen.
Solitary is the way that my foot steps.
Why do I walk?
Why do I stroll?
There are no tracks down the path that I walk.
There is no trail pre-paved through this reality,
just a desolate forest engulfed in evening.
Even the ocean's black serenity lies in my wake.
It swallows whole these beings of clay.
It takes them into their final watery grave
to which dust they return.
But as I aproach it,
as I waltz upon the shoreline,
the liquids solidify into a horizon of ice
and I walk across it
like Jesus on water.