The March

i will walk until i feed the soil with my bones and i will not stop for food or water as i do not need these things for where i aim to go. i will not look back at who i leave behind, at who will age and crumble where they stand as these statues do not line the halls of where i aim to rest. the years will pass beneath my feet like dreams within my sleep, and names will fade from faces and those faces to the distance. of all the places they will haunt not one will be my thoughts. my soul will ware with each desert crossed leaving pieces of myself at every corner turned until i walk on bruised and bloody heels leaving crimson prints behind. the heat will bake my skin, the rain will wash the dust, and this coat of skin hanging on these bones will fall; i will be then just my core, only bones outside an empty husk bones are brittle and will break, marrow staining resting rocks. this last effigy will fail, falling forward with momentum pointing in direction one last time at where i aim to go i will then be free.