Poem: Strange Paths


Strange Paths

In the heat of the day, the grass grows dry.
The birds fall quiet
and the wind goes still.

A fence marks the path,
old and dry and brittle,
it still stands

and leads the way,
beckoning to the adventurer,
calling to you and those like you

who tire of the well-worn streets
of town and travel, tire
of the pretense of perfection,

the need to be something both more
and less than you are.

The path is overgrown.
There are wildflowers and briars.
There are stones, sharp and bright.
and no signs to tell you where it leads.

This is your path.
Whether by fate or madness you do not know,
but you are drawn to what’s beyond

the curve, the unseen, the belief
that there are more adventures to be had,
and that your old bones can survive the journey
once more.

About this poem

Sometimes I know what I am doing. More often, I don’t. But how else will I learn?


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