The path lies ahead, just at the edge of vision, hidden by the haze of life. It will make no desperate plea for your attention, only wait for your willing arrival. Most will simply ignore it; they turn their backs and instead focus on the water vapor suspended in the air. As time passes, our minds and bodies age. Soon our vision will no longer be vivid enough, and the path will fall out of sight. Perhaps it can still be found, but it will not be easy to make a way through the mist.

we see the flames when we awake we feel the heat against our skin respect is given, no request we dance around the flowing light we step carefully as we ought if such a state could just endure we don’t seem to remember we never look towards the light even so the blaze remains

He walks along the tightest rope, An aim unseen, as masked in smoke. In gently walking razor’s edge, The older mind he will avenge. In joy he meets the subtle pain, A rift not gentle to maintain. Could turn away, as well he should, But splinters same as firewood. Endemic though, such a divide, And warning more of former times. To linger now in routine space, Is warm enough, if out of place. By light of day and into night, A quiet yet emphatic fight, Endures the endless era brief, A lucid end, but no relief.