Tuesday, March 25, 2014


Our childhood ways
are missing stones, and potholes
have become permanent sign posts by which
we judge our progress
down the road.

But all who travel this way
become undone
before the the wasted land.  They are
those who walk on it, the winding way into
valleys of death
where there is no good
to touch them.

We who walk
can't see anything above us,
our eyes downward,
to light our feet on this path.

Can the road become remade?

But we may walk on
and we may still
hear the wind blowing where it wills. Perhaps then
we will become men and women

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