Dawn approaches. You begin your lonely walk. The one for which you’ve prepared.
Snow crunches as you advance step-after-step towards the Cathedral.
Other figures approach; they have no single purpose like yours.
You have accepted that you are one of the Chosen.
You clear your mind. Your fate is not your own.
You bow your head. You shut out fear.
Step-by-step you advance. Steady.
Your will is not your own.
Over the threshold.
From a prompt by Hélène Vaillant of Willow Poetry