Thorned and blessed sound the same on my tongue
To me, both are a balm to the shattered keratin of my toes
Both are as certain of something as my fray-scattered nerves can be.
It translates to “Stairwell”
or “Cage”
In equal measure.
But it makes no difference.
I think my brothers in the Gunpowder hills
Forget that despair is the same word
In every language.
There is nothing for us,
Beyond the eastern chill.
We are each of us a nation,
A fortress, and
Alone.
There is no more sublime a nightmare.