Sacred LINES

The Pilgrimage

On a pilgrimage,

Deep into the wilderness,

I stumble,

feet tracing no path,

heart aching, soul weary.

the air is heavy

with the weight of absence— 

absence of certainty,

absence of direction,

absence of me. 

in this void,

I follow an unmarked map, 

the compass breaks,

 and something stirs— 

a quiet whisper

 beneath the noise. 

“Lost Boy,” he calls me. 

I spin and spin round to see if I can catch

The wayward soul

But in the scattered ashes of my life, 

I see the glimmer of what was hidden,

Me.

And in that emancipation—

unexpected, messy, raw—

I uncover something extraordinary.

There is a delicious liberation in being lost

Freedom to find myself.

When I lost my way

I broke free from expectations 

In the paradox of being nowhere, 

I find I belong anywhere

Most importantly

to myself