A fork flays the road.
An offshoot course dawdles
In the infinite horizon,
The skies lit sapphiric blue
While a single cloud floats in
For a chat.
Down the second split,
Willows weeping golden
Strands cloak the path black
In the shadow of their limbs.
But the solid glow
Of a thousand lanterns’ fires
Leads you on and on
Down winding dirt trails.
But neither way
Is meant for me.
Mine is through the thicket,
The leaden dark,
Where the only hands
That dare touch your skin
Are those of the forest.
He Who Wanders 