Sometimes one has to go where even angels fear to tread –
a barely-heard-of hinterland where one is neither live nor dead;
a world beyond the forest fires and quaggy mires of ordinary fate,
a semi-hopeless state where greyness has no legal home,
where demons cruelly duelly roam, poke fun and poke out eyes,
where mysterious means dangerous and truth consists of sighs,
where every trail leads off a cliff; where driftwood floats not in
the sea but in the air and nothing’s just and nothing’s fair;
where only patience gets you through combined with prayer
disguised as tears and nothing ever there allays your fears.
Yet freedom slyly creeps up on us when we throw away the map
and compass, wander down that muddy unmarked track,
explore the meaning of alone, face the bloody rumpus, then,
with luck (& after many thrusts of lance and sword) come back,
a thousand aeons older, a wounded tattered cosmic soldier.
© Alan Morrison, 2013