No, there are not.
There are accidental steps,
sideways things all off the edge of the
narrow Way,
in the brambles and the briars
and sharp, soil-splitting things
that grow in this ground.
I groan, for I too have known
what it is to topple,
stumble into the dark of a ditch.
These bones are bare now,
their flesh long fallen from the frame,
flayed away by the biting things
that I found in my foolish moments.
And I am a fool,
unfit for sainthood,
all doubt and dim darkness
and waning candlelight.
Perhaps the listening keeps me.
I have spent so much time sitting
with silence in the lightless hours
between death and distant daybreak,
face glistening with tears that tear
at the soul; split it, leaving it asunder.
In those hours, I begged that my bones
might be borne up towards heaven.
I am still here,
but I am alive again,
barefoot on holy ground.
These bare and brittle bones,
wrapped in new skin,
are learning to dance once more.