Weeping, I ran from the house;
it was the first thing written
by the door: Dante.
I jogged past my life,
sometimes sprinted,
kept pace-watched
at the roadside,
the path itself was straight.
Saw on the left, hills
that looked up as old soldiers regret.
Came closer to what I had thought:
a field obscured from the road
and through a gap,
a white horse stood
as ambition had done.
Proud, curious for a moment,
it put its head down to graze
in pastures green and decorated.
Starting to rain, the breeze
spoke to me as if sent.
Only now shall I run faster
into the darkness that bore me
on a track getting me lost,
in unkept places where light
is absent and friends
could not show their tears
as descent began
and candles remained unlit.
