I walk where no compass dares to turn
Through cathedrals of bone & thorn
The moon my candle, dim & grim
Lit not for saints, but those who mourn

No kingdom waits with jeweled gates
No crown of gold, no holy feast
Only wind that weeps through chapel stones
And whispers from the tethered beast

The saints once told of narrow roads
Of paths where angels gently trod
But mine is jagged, dark, unmade
And yet I walk it, hand in God

For having no destination, I am never lost
My soul not bartered, weighed, or tossed
Each shadowed step, a sacred cost
A hymn sung backward to the Cross

And when I kneel beneath the stars
Where thorns outnumber trees
I know the Lord walks just ahead
Barefoot, bleeding, whispering: “Please”