Iron Veils in Shadowy Vales
From the crag I see the path
descend into the valley
shrouded in the shadows of
doubt, uncertainty, and fear of failure.
I see a white pillar cast in regret's cold salt-stone,
from which there is no turning back.
Even a brief glance back over the shoulder
up into the bright crags of peaks above,
bathed in bright sunlight in the path behind me,
will cause me to fall off the path side,
into the chasm of hell, penance, suffering and retribution,
toppling off the cliff with arms and legs flailing,
tumbling out of control,
screaming through gnashed teeth.
The shadows wreak of tales untold,
of battles fought and lost,
of past losses and retreats on endless repeats.
The mists wreak and stink of echoes
returning, haunting back to
what was longing to be forgotten,
as I step lightly
into the shadows of the valley.
I draw in my collar around my cheeks,
drag my hood over to cover my head,
pull my arms tightly against my body
to retain my bodily heat
to shield against the dank, dark, nagging cold,
I look ahead with steely-eyed determination
to soldier-on with the resilience and resolve
that's deeply forged within the marrow of my bones
I take another step down
to rise above the easy path
to self-victimization, subterfuge and blame.
I succumb without a whimper
to the blast furnace.
To be heated soft to red-white hot.
To be beaten and banged,
by the blacksmith clad in leather,
into an steely shape
only useful when cold.
Copyright ©
John Anderson
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