Written: 6/29/2025
Strangely nothing is implied this time.
Sitting here on the guest bed and doing laundry
after grinding it hard at the crunch gym.
Tomorrow marks 3 months living in
Lost Cruces, New Mexico.
Taking the side path with a sign that says:
'for the stoics'.
but then again would it really be 'My' path?
I watched my own slashings and whippings for 15 years.
Wishing things would become simple so I've
stepped here.
Here after all the : back-stabbings, loss,
funerals, isolation, self-hatred and the like.
Not only have I grown hinds feet but
I've grown white wings.
At the top of the mountain are the eagles.
Swarming and flying around in circles.
The ones who gave everything up, not quite dead
but always in the threat of it.
I look back at the sign, turn around and walk back.
Anyone can take Marcus's trail
but I don't get a choice with mine.
And just like the poem I wrote over a decade ago:
5 steps with flight:
Though my wings can't make it up;
just as of yet
I pray for more persecution at the river
of unbelief
to become more
weightless.
A poem about walking on a predestined path of horror © 2 days ago, Sean C. Stucki church