It’s not for the fantasy
that at the table of martyrs,
someone will acknowledge,
that I had it harder.
It’s not for the telling,
not for the proof.
Not for the hope someone gets it
when I’m through.
It’s not for the showing,
not for the win.
Not for the knowing
I was right in the end.
When the mountain says no,
today is not your turn,
how do you respond?
Do you bow your head
and turn for another day,
or keep pressing on?
Perhaps you’ve been lucky
to acquire belief
that you can always ascend.
Or, maybe, luckier still,
you’ve fallen at times,
and nodding, descend.
An unfurling storm,
miles away from anywhere,
foolish to ascend.
The frozen supplies,
reminders of poor planning,
and my shortcomings.
But upon the snow
rests my overburdened pack,
begging to descend.
And I do agree,
because you cannot exchange
a failed homecoming.
What a naive mistake it was,
conjured from my innocent youth,
to desire an arduous cause
delivering some worldly truth.
Because when the day came knocking
and all was suddenly upturned,
I would have done most anything
to avoid what I had to learn.
See, they didn’t come in boxes
wrapped up nicely as one would wish,
but were often paradoxes,
and what I can tell you is this: