The Promised Land

There’s an old spring that ebbs just out of sight of my home

-A walk down the valley of thorns and you’ll find it carving its name out of stone.

I used to pretend it led to something new- the Promised Land or just somewhere further away from here-

But in truth it doesn’t flow much at all and the cavern is a poor pick of shelter.

And when the water rises, it’s only to wash at the bones

-of so many travelers here.

Their tongues, once sated by the fruits of the earth,

Their eyes, once full of hopes and dreams, and destiny

-now they rot, parting pieces of tendon and bone

Just asking me why I keep coming here,

To keep them company

“These aren’t the waters of John,

Or life to the weak- as surely your eyes can see

They aren’t a refugees beacon nor promise of anything

-just stories that ended here, with the dogs at our bones”

I took a look at the dead, the maggots and mud;

Everything moving, a dreamer soon to his death

Everything dead, front row for all its worth

-Even if they had to give up a bone or two

-before I spoke

“I’m just here to remind myself-

that nothing comes easy or fair,

that sometimes the road can be too short,

and that some thirsts can never be quenched here”

And as the leaves fall over and over,

And the climb gets harder,

As I feel more and more like those bones down there,

I reach for a promised land-

Lest I end up at the bottom of my own ravine

And it’s far too late.