One more

So close to the finish line yet it seems to retreat at ever passing step, every passing breath. All lines etched into my skin tell a story of repetition. A revolution waged against the past to vie for a place at the seat of tables wrought with the lost dreams and festering woes of past selves. Bones washed clean with the morning tides re-purposed as sign posts, pointing every which way except the direction for progression. Nothing need be said nor do words exist to express the level of fear and doubt and confusion related to journeys begun at the womb and left at the side of the road in a hurricane. Better to be swept up then to be nailed down to weather the passing seasons with a stoic expression. Tempering the mind through the fire of self immolation and ripping to shreds what's left as kindling for future endeavors. Dust remains. Nothing less nothing more.