The blood-soaked coast after weeks of searching,
after I lost the map,
after my old shoes eroded.
One morning dawn appeared, glorious,
and we trudged up one side of a dune
then down the other, and there it was.
Red sand.
Low, low tide.
Carrion birds high above.
Bones of the martyrs, future relics,
bleaching in the morning sun.
Instead of shells, or jellyfish,
or sea-soaked driftwood,
a beach covered in relics.
End of the journey,
but has anything changed?
Forgiveness is never that easy.
Sins cannot be sloughed away
like dead skin gone to ashes.
**
Last night it rained.
I think I finally understand
Nietzsche's last descent,
too late of course.
There's a truth so hard
so shiny that the edges
cut me,
and I just know.
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