Judges Decide

 I ran east, then walked far northbound. Shallowed steps, made of eggshells, 

I crossed the bridge of consciousness, thought it made me wide awake.

I ran right, then left, slept in the Tabard Inn before my stop at the Church of Light.

Then my journey started westward. 

Hundreds of us made such a scene, a hellish composition of D-Day that Dante would stand proud of.

A journey, I call it a pilgrimage, not to Mecca, not to Jerusalem, but something inward, more personal.

I ran, and I ran fast. I ran until I was breathless on a meadow hosting blood poppies, singing, swinging with the north wind.

I ran until I could not. I ran until It outran me.

It caught me by my throat on a good old sunny day, when I thought I had escaped It.

It caught me in the middle of a crossroad, pinned me to the ground.

It caught me when my fingertips almost brushed the softness of fate's leash.

It caught me years after.