The worn out road before
us as carved by those
that came before.
It’s cut though ice, snow
and fields of tall grass, over
sand and dirt and salt.
It’s cut through experience
and metal, through ages and
stone. It’s a memory of
what was and a line to
the future.
It’s awake and aware and
ready for your footfalls
to add to it’s uniqueness,
to see the roses bloom along
the way and feel the
wind in your hair.
Each path is a departure
point from the last step of
the first step of the rest of
your steps until your last
step.
Mine is a dusty trail with
wagon wheel ruts and the
footprints of hundreds marked
into its surface, all headed
toward mediocrity and
mere survival.
My path is tired of my
lonely shoes trodden upon its
dirty face. It tells me to find
accompaniment to stroll its
dusty way.
A hand held tightly as feet
move forward makes the
going all the greater.
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