Pilgrimage

She beckons with an open palm and a smile

but her heart is closed and her eyes empty

Her hair floats, black and thick

swirling through the air around her

framed by iridescent light

She bears scars, old and new

red and pink and purple,

big and small and jagged and smooth

and there’s no beauty to it

I take her hand

and when our palms meet,

the long walk is over.

And maybe it’s not what I thought it would be

but it’s better than before.