by Mimi Whittaker

Created on: August 06, 2007

Pilgrimage

Every year he goes to
that dark place
at the bottom of the beer
to see through amber eyes
the canyon of his losses.

Lumbering there
through distant sounds
of caroling,
he stumbles on red rocks
and tumbleweeds of ribbons.

Descending through the colored lights
he searches for her face,
finding only silence or maybe
a string of half-played songs
sung always alone from his faded,
war worn book.

I keep wait on the living side
knowing
that she's never coming back.

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