Limping Past the Tomb

The splinter of a thistle
meddles with the burden
of my feet as I walk along
a path away
from the steel bars
on the open door
of another dungeon
from which I have escaped.

Just in time,
I scrape my own shadow
away from the way
she seems to have ensconced herself
in all the patterns
of freedom I'd forgotten
while bending away
from all sources
of light.

I limp,
wince as I struggle
to carry the true self
past the tomb

and pass by all the others
who will never feel
the royal thorns that bring blood
to the surface
of this mortal skin.