All we had was one vague map
on the lost trail which found a few.
There were more hikers at the start
as each scattered stranger received our
strange questions: Where is this going?
What does it mean? Why are we here
when there are better trails to be?
Their answers, our map, our will:
flickering torches on the lonely path
guiding us around the canyon rim
for seven meandering miles until we realized
there was no precipice, no destination
as our fear of purposelessness came true.
If there was a “goal” in my linear obsessing
it was to realize how lost I already was—
to toss my watch from the mesa and know
the futility of time and maps and advice.
Grief goes nowhere but down and around
an unfathomable void once filled.