Long-lost lionheart,
how do I forward-step
when magma’s mere meters away,
lava inching closer to my soles by the day?
Inner roars and thuds lost to time’s trappings.
All I have the might for: backwards.
What’s been written is easier to dive in
than unknowns—
or so one would think.
Truth be told,
shrinking only comes of clinging.
Viewing the world
from the pinhole behind me
will guarantee no presence
now and in all future nows.
Forward trajectories may singe,
but my inner sun burns brighter,
so there’s nothing left to fear.
The only way I’ll find you, lionheart,
is by treading ahead
until death inevitably rears its head.
Until then, I’ll take my first forward-step,
then second, fifth, hundredth…
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