The path is narrow,
potholed, with roots buttnosed,
green needles falling off
and sometimes cones.
And near the clearing,
by the Northern Moss, exposed
is one small arrow.
I feel it in my bones,
it penetrates my hearing.
I'm on the road that leads to Me,
it spans the lonely distance,
from sweet temptation to the land
where old man Ustinov
said it was rich, but bland.
My legs, named doubt,
they stand, though sturdy,
here, before daydreaming eyes.
And disembarking from an old existence,
of what I once regarded as too many lies.
On the horizon I can see a pregnant cloud,
it seems this path will simultaneously
lead up and down, it's what the eye can see.
Which I'd consider somewhat outside of the law
of Nature, and I frown and struggle to be free,
when at the crossroad stands a man, appearing nerdy,
with horn-rimmed glasses, blue suspenders holding pants.
He, being friendly, takes a step to meet this vagrant.
Me, being aimless, shake his hand with sudden vigour.
' I have been resting by this oaktree 'til I saw
that you were troubled and confused with all the sands
of time and place, and that you sought to find a fragrant
new forest where you'd meet, at last, the real YOU.
Yes, I can tell you that it takes tremendous rigour
to drift without an anchor or a walking stick.
You may be puzzled as to climbing or falling,
so do not ask me what it is that makes you tick.
I must be off before they think I might be stalling
in my own effort to be conqueror of ME.'
He took the fork that led due east and was soon gone.
I dropped my pack and willed a spring into my stride.
For many miles I marched, the road went on and on.
And I arrived at last, without my bloody pride.