One day I’ll put on my
walking shoes.
Maybe the house will burn
down
or I’ll be tossed out into
the street;
maybe it’ll be wanderlust,
cabin fever.
I’ll become a pilgrim then
– a lengthy,
arduous journey becoming
my life
and what will be left of
me? Nothing more
towards the end than my
walking shoes,
one foot wearily in front
of the other,
bearing my soul towards
the threshold
where sanctity dictates,
of course,
the removal of these smelly,
heavy, broken,
worn and dusty, sweat-stained,
mud-caked appurtenances,
my spirit laved and unshod
to freely enter
the holy immaculate house
of God.
O child of God, Moses was
plainly told –
no man sees My face and
lives.
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