Leave the place
where the smoke
burns black.

Turn your back on the beast
whose dark arms wind and bend,...

...ever reaching to choke out the spaces
blown by wild peppermint winds.

Go weary traveler with the heart and eyes of a child,
find the place where the paths of machines end,
never forgetting to leave your mark.

Seek the end
and when you find it,
forsake the safety of dark arms
and enter
the unknowable.

Let the moon-bird eat you alive.

Then
you will see
the place
where the grass
grows soft
and white...

...and
at last
the sun
within you
will burn
crimson bright.

Here,
as a moon-bird,
prepare for flight
in the infinite space
between
where the road ends
and the sidewalk begins.

(Thanks to Shel Silverstein for leaving those first arrows.)

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