Pilgrimage

Men across centuries have
Walked paths long and desolate
With eyes only on the prize,
God, divinity, holiness
Anything outside
to make the misery bearable
Would they have ever stopped to wonder
If there’s a place closer home
that they’ve never ventured towards?
To these men I say—

This poem is a pilgrimage,
All the words lead
To this woman’s heart,
This room inside her self
That has been denied
the privilege of consideration

In it you’ll find,
A carpet of loss
A table of small sorrows
A wardrobe of shame
And a bookshelf of secrets
You’ll also find,
Curtains of hope
Wind chimes of wonder
A table lamp of possibility
And many paintings of dreams

This is a room,
Always in the making,
Ever fluid,
questioning and reframing everything
Maybe that’s what makes this room
Unfit for pilgrimage
It is not based
on outdated ideals of the past
Its form ever changing,
terrifying anybody who seeks control

Should you ever choose to set on this journey,
Here’s the secret that nobody’s ever bothered to uncover:
Speak with love, act with kindness,
listen with a curious ear, and
most importantly,
leave your ego outside before you enter