I stand in shadow. The journey is not yet nearing its end. Immersed in darkness, I stumble forward, holding on to the hope that my direction is true.
Though it is boundless, my destination lies beyond reach. How does one follow a path not yet carved? Each step skims the face of the unknown; a story unfolds from the tip of a pen.
I take you by the hand. The path ahead remains dark; still the way lies hidden in shadow.
It no longer matters.
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.
Do not waver. The reluctant will find their journey’s end in the dull fog where they began. Go willingly; you will not return.
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.
A path he casts on broken glass,
Where different roads remain, and vast
Are those he might have taken, yet
He chooses still another step.