The Journey
Each morning I wade through fog,
hands outstretched, grasping at wisps
that dissolve between my fingers.
The weight of unknowing
bends my spine like scoliosis,
and yet, I stand.
Questions carve canyons
into my thoughts, deep gorges
where certainty once lived.
Each step forward scrapes
against rough stone, leaving
bloody footprints of trying.
But pain is a chisel
that shapes the soul,
and doubt is the hammer
that breaks false foundations.
Even as I bleed, I bloom
like flowers forcing through concrete.
The meaning I seek
may never fully form,
but in this holy ache of searching
I find something better:
the courage to keep asking,
the strength to stay uncertain,
And in the end, perhaps
the journey itself
is the meaning I sought—
not a destination to reach,
but a path that shapes me
with every excruciating step.
Copyright © Oliver Henry | Year Posted 2024
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