What usually becomes of my lonesome, and dare I say, introspective evenings with the “enlightened” soul that is myself, is a poem.
As it turns out, I like being deep — who doesn’t, right? While definitely not being too cavalier with these rather abstract thoughts, I also like to put them down on paper before these ephemeral moments of wisdom decide to float away into nothingness.
The poem you are about to lay eyes on talks about my take on something so trivial that we never fail to misunderstand it.
The road less traveled leads into the mist,
So dense, so thick.
Finding myself rapt; I muse over the situation,
So ill at ease.
I cry — but my cries dissolve into the air.
The mist takes it in.
There are others in the mist, too.
I can fathom their cries.
I call out harder still, to figure where I am,
But none wish to lend me ears too long.
I settle on carrying on forward alone.
From a sightless traveler on this misty road,
I must awaken.
The mist blinds me from what is beyond.
And I am but forced to look within,
To look for solace, peace and comfort,
in the nothingness that lay about me.
To look for love I can give away;
cause hatred to go another way.
The road less traveled has brought me here.
To be unlike what you’d reckon familiar.
And I have wandered far from the mist.
To witness the world I always missed.