An Expedition

The iced winds rack the air, pricking
Our exposed faces 

                                       The frosted surface
Whimpers wearily under our glazed boots 

The sky as white as paste, the journey 
Losing meaning with each step 

Yet still we trudge, and trudge, and trudge
Through this frozen wasteland 

I root in doubt 

I look at the peers around me:

Some have determined bodies 
With faces of pained confusion

Many plough on striving 
For the peddled gold

Significant sums sink in disbelief  

But those with ears to hear, hear sharply
The distant, curt cries of man and woman

As if they’re being picked off by streaks
Of bullets fired by turrets,
They carry the colour of futile labour. 

                                                  I root in doubt 

I sense a left turn is needed 
But could my reading be erratic? 

What vice is encroaching me: 
The slimy embrace of sloth? 
The pointed pole of pride? 

I root in doubt

                                For sure, there’s a shortage
Of helping hands

I’m just one of many who’s struggling
In these merciless conditions
                                     
                                         No one really cares

So, I’ll take the path of truest feeling, 
Despite the concerned glances 

May I be greeted 
By piles of bones or vines of grapes?