Stories are life. Read some, write some, be some.

The path is long and climbs

Through woods I hate to see.

And yet I go there constantly,

Symptom of who I hate to be.

In slow-motion I walk along

Knowing where the thing will lead.

The walking is more tolerable

Than not walking it would be.

I'm isolated on this path,

Though others have been here.

I search the path for company,

A response that I will never see.

Walking on this path

Provides me time to think.

And yet the sounds of it

Prevent all thought and peace.

I climb this lonely path of mine,

Symptom of who I hate to be.

Poetry