Written in Stone

My route was etched into the sides of pyramids,
before the stars aligned. Before you.
Before her. Before him. Before I raced into
the dark with only a pack of cigarettes and a half
empty lighter. Red. It’s always red.
My course was flowing through my veins before
the gods picked my name, and my death, was decided
long before the first grave was dug by the calloused
hands of those who steal tokens, and long before
coins were placed on the eye lids of the sinners
who need to bribe the old man traveling the waters.
My heart bleeds out in my sleep, and when I open my eyes,
I am reminded that soldiers don’t get to detour.
We do not get to stop and rest our soft bones on
the side of the road. We will limp,
and salty tears will streak across our dirty faces,
but we will get to the finish line.
We will, because it is not our choice.
We don’t get to defy the map written in
the unfading ink of time, written in the books
stored in the heavens. In the stars that we
do not know of yet.
You know who you are.
So do I.
We wear our pain and our strength with pride,
even when we are on our knees,
crawling.
It is written.
So it must be.
Must.
Be.