Life

The path dwindles down to a point

fingernails groove in.

She had walked a thousand miles

has yet to fly a thousand still.

Birds cast her a side-ways look,

green cats cross her path

she had crossed the shadowy bridge

and deep forests she had passed.

Smoke from unnamed chimneys

swallow the morning whole

She had stopped to stare once,

a hundred days ago.

Pedestals made out of thin air

stand atop a grand hill

rugs and throws and pillows

invite her in.

Blue rivers rained down the hill

crying at her journey

she walked and ran and pranced on

it not quite over still.

little houses made out of sadness

gardens of joy and gaiety

she saw them all from a distance,

nothing broke her will.

Rocks they threw, evils goblins all

hasty secrets were revealed.

But she had walked a thousand miles

and had a thousand to fly still.