Grandeur

by Jennifer Wren Call

What is grandeur,

but walking a crust

no thicker than trust

on a paper-thin, horizonless plush?

This floating parchment breathes,

folding beneath—

my feet, the scrawl

scribbling lines.

Each step, a child’s mark,

a scratch in time,

my wandering script

on a fire-filled sphere.

Crusted,

I tread—tales

of memories and dreams

only my skull can carry

to a world unseen.

I leave no signature,

only prints in the dust.

Still, I wonder,

in awe—and must.

Know this venture—

I share some, or maybe none,

with those who scribbled before me,

drunk in wanderlust,

feet full of questions,

stepping—

never crushing answers.