When you're born already lost,
St. Christopher passes you by,
afraid that like the Christ
you'll be too heavy for his shoulders.
Those who lost their own ways, later
won't even turn their heads,
reminded of the choice they had.
Those who've never left their path,
may love you once they claim you,
because we own and then we love.
But you won't forget, when their whispers stop
around you, as if your hearing had a switch;
you, who have scanned every secret,
whose eyes have swept the open world
for the path never offered, the question
that should have come before the answer.