Every road has an end,
Or so they say.
Beyond the bend
Of that virgin road
The morning rises
Like oil to the surface.
Light glimmers,
Brilliant and bold,
Over pastures green and wide,
And amid the rolling hills,
Wet with dew,
A silver mist slips away.
Or so they say.
Yet, here I stand
With downcast eyes
And weary feet as beaten
As the path behind. In a nameless dell,
Under crooked trees, I count my woes
And curse the dark that binds me
With blackened threads. Limbs heavy
And gaze unmoving, I can’t bear to look ahead.
For every road has an end,
Or so they say,
But perhaps it is just the beginning.
He Who Wanders 