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I trod the barren courts of mine own breast;
There lay the wrecks of vows I once had made,
Like wither’d stars denied their place of rest.
The soul, unmoored, did question time and truth,
And ask’d what tempests fashion mortal will;
What secret fires, unbeckon’d since my youth,
Yet smoulder’d on, defiantly and still.
Then from that inward dusk a whisper grew,
A voice unshapen, wrought of ache and grace,
Which spake: “Thy wounds are chronicles, not rue;
Thy scars be maps that none but thee can trace.”
Thus stand I now—unhallow’d, yet unbow’d,
A pilgrim forged where light and shadow vow’d.
~GAYDANT 2025