I tread softly down paths
created by the old ones,
the wise and wizened ones.
Women with hushed voices
speak of high men in low places,
shame and grief in shadowlands.
Guided by their stories
of misguided mysteries,
I seek realms that yet exist
in broken minds, in dreams
of passages once perfect, whole,
now inking sly hands in vexation.
These fabled ways lead
nowhere you’d venture.
(Well, not if you were in a
position to choose, I mean,
but I am in no such position, see.)
I follow the wildest garden paths.