Pilgrimage

Phillip Brown

The door clicks softly
as it shuts behind
me, its echo a bare whisper
in the silent corridor

I begin walking, bearing
the marks of a pilgrim:
feet bare, soul empty

hands cupped, begging
for truth

I pass by doors
draped in tattered shadows
and windows
glazed with light
I walk around corners
and under arches

And time stretches out
before me, like
a shadow cast
by evening sun

With weary legs,
I tread these paths
within myself
looking, seeking

And then, in front of
me, I see the door
where I began

I sit down, heavy-hearted,
bearing the marks of a pilgrim:
feet bare, soul empty

hands cupped, holding
questions.