The Coming Turn

This is my home. Its corridors 

Are shrouded gray in knee-high mist. 

You cannot see the path before 

Or where you came from. Do not try, 

And do not stoop to touch the stones 

That cut your feet or stop to rest.

The crawling things will catch you

As they caught me, once. I used to bleed

The way you do, but now my palms

And knees are scarred. I leave no trace

In passing, and I lift my head

Just high enough to see the coming

Turn.