Forward is a word I like

It bounds through my fingers as I write

tired feet, and tired hands

and ragged throats and worn down molars

All whisper forward

I turn to look and they are with me. 

And then, through pain fugue you appear. 

Wondering if you had ever been,

fear holding you in place. 

But you did not stray from the path:

There is the aftermath of your dogged struggle. 

And I think those bloody prints

are the most beautiful things I have ever seen.