Everywhere, the crowds play their violins and
strap on ancestral gems,
picking and choosing pathos and wines to dip
their bread into until
their hearts are full.
They shop around for magic harps and sunken
treasure wedged beneath
the blackest night and call it Truth, crying all
roads lead to truth.
I read their books, I read their lives, I read
their money trail,
I see the course they are blazing,
I feel the thunder of feet upon
their enlightened aura’s,
I listen to their new-found panacea’s, boiled
in a new light.
They choose a charm and call it holy.
A prayer and a wish become the same.
I remain
behind the masses.
Nothing is new under the sun.
Old cauldrons with fresh soil still produce mud.
The dust mingles with my tears, the trail will
not see my footsteps, a false light beckons
but I don’t chase it any more.
I examine
the enemy and learn to run toward the Rock
to hide beneath
its sheltering
harbor.
Written for:
#Free Write Friday; Roads Less Traveled
Talk about a time you took the road less traveled and the differences it made…
Writing On The Sun 