Blood Drips on Footprints

A split sun twilights sand for my limping eyes.
Looking behind, I can barely make
heads or tails of the chaotic track.
Blood drips on
footprints of many people who come to
shove me forward
or drag me back—
footprints that slide into splintered planks
that stain with the red of those who love.
Our sinking nails mean well.
The sand we walk on is an ever-shifting mess of red
water and driftwood. The lighthouse at the end
illuminates the wretched path. But
when I look to the light
I can move forward.