Poetry Series: The Pilgrim’s Lament

Beneath the moon’s pale silver gaze,

I tread a path through shadowed haze,
A wanderer bound by neither creed
Nor hearth, nor kin, nor rooted seed.

In Blake’s fire, the heavens burned,
A thousand suns, their secrets spurned,
Yet wisdom whispered from the flame:
“To seek the One, forsake the name.”

Through Steiner’s veils of cosmic light,
The stars witnessed my endless plight.
Each step reveals a truth concealed,
Each truth—a void, is unconcealed.

Oh, Rumi sang, “Beloved’s near,”
Yet I found no hand to steady my fear.
The tavern brims with souls in prayer,
But I drink alone in the dark, dank, heavy air.

In Sylvia’s mirror, the self is torn,
A soul reborn yet still forlorn.
Her words clawed wounds upon my skin,
A battle lost, a war within.

And Tolkien spoke of lands untrod,
Of fates entwined by a dark God.
But even Elven songs could not
Fill the void where silence wrought.

The road is mine, none may tread,
A path where ancient echoes bled.
For seeking truth, I bear the cost,
Belonging’s grace forever lost.

Yet in the lonely, endless quest,
I feel the hand of the divine rest.
Not in the congregation, nor holy shrine,
But in the whisper, “You are mine.”

So let the world call me estranged,
A pilgrim wandering, scattered, unarranged.
For I am neither here nor there—
A flame that flickers or dies in God’s prayer.

By Alex Koritz