Pilgrims

I crossed the Arctic circle and slipped; where no man's conception had braced for decline. Downward I fell hoping to find ground but none appeared. Was I entering space or leaving? Nonetheless the freedom seemed senseless; unburdened yet captive. I'd become brethren to rarity as the warmth increased. Images of Recurrence made playthings out of my wagering organs. As I stripped clean my fear, the core perceived my lack of origin. Humble myself to grand design. The root of passage is always open for pilgrims.