Steps Poem by Phil de Lange

He lives on two feet,
wandering through the endless misery pit -
was it his eyes I remember?
Alluring my ignorance that hour,
an eternal fabrication of fear

His footprints, faceless rejections in the dirt,
drag forgotten pride through filth -
was this his path on which I tread?
An old road of ambition shadowed my mystery,
the sun’s retreat, births life afar.

He is walking dead,
lost in the pool of misguided dreams.
When did he depart, translucent from this world?
Mind and body left at the altar,
sacrificed by our only begotten mother.

He yearns now deep
to the very core of hate!
Does he pray for my fall?
Another green pile of ash to tramp,
to cast life, in his broken hollow of hunger.


Hopeless tunes of torment swivel his steps -
the journey’s wheels guiding a moonlit corpse.
Was it my greed, my putrid inspiration that took his soul?
Tearing away the flesh of surreal compassion,
this encompassed dark vessel turns its back, content in blindness.