The Quest

They called me
stranger in
a strange
land, of
foreign accent and more
curious syntax,

emblems on
my jacket arm not
immediately
recognized.

I was poised to
die beside them but never
liked much by
their ilk,
patchwork leather to
their fancy silks,

barely initiated within
their ranks.

I was called
outsider, night
rider, queer as a
seasoned liar with
spitfire tongue that
knows not thanks
when their legion
of eyes meet
mine.

But they hand
me an artifact made
as much from
sand as
glass

(worth as
much as gold and
little as an
empty flasks during
feast),

request I risk
myself for them.

“You have a certain darkness, a shallow cunning,” they said,
“and the lot of us are cowards with
every reason not to go.”

“But how do you know,” I asked, “someone’s not waiting for
me back at home, wondering if I might
return?”

“Because you came here,”
their leader concurred, “to a place nobody else would care
to save.

“Show us how to be brave,” he
said, “and maybe you will
find what you came
here for.”

He pointed to
the door,
sending me to my
death or something
worse.

“Take this contraption and put it back in the hell hole
from whence it came.

It’s the only
way to save
yourself.”

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2 thoughts on “The Quest

  1. This, i suppose, would be a very intense kind of feeling alone in the world, like nobody will EVER give a DAMN about who you are, or what you’re about, and, we are often, trapped inside this state of mind of our own loneliness, allowing this pain of never being understood by anybody ELSE hurt us again, and again…

    Like

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