The Pilgrimage

The Pilgrimage Slowly, walking only in my mind, Retracing life’s strange path Down corridors grey, unlit. Each open door is flanked by others, Forever closed, Yet still the keys are in each rusty lock. My hand moves slowly, touching each in turn, As memories come to life. These portals now on chosen roads That cannot be reversed. Decisions made Knowingly, or still not understood. Further back in time my journey leads, And hand prints mark the walls Made in haste, or for support, They show the jagged line I've walked, It twists and turns, A labyrinth filled with happiness and dread. Light slowly fades the further back I go. Walls narrow, cobwebs stretched In front, not breaking as I pass, Yet still I feel their razor threads Against my skin As I reach more dusty tight shut doors. What if? What if I'd picked a different way? Would I still be me? I'll never know, for though I try, The keys won't turn and let me glimpse What might have been Had fate or reason held a shaking hand. Some doors bring distant memories flooding back, Despair and love and hate, So vivid I must close my eyes To shut out feelings long forgotten. I never should have left This world I know to walk into a mire.