Path

You know what I think of the world? Let me tell you.

The world is a path full of dried leaves,

No matter how carefully you tread, you can’t avoid the trees.

Every step adds to the noise,

That distracts the lonely traveller from the bird’s melodious voice.

I say it is a path because it never ends,

Trails left by the treads of much better men.

We follow blindly hoping to reach the end,

But not once do we know what’s around the bend.

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The dried leaves though perceived as inconsequential,

They slowly guide the way, prompting you. Making you think you’re special.

They cajole you, lure you, make you believe in your originality,

But my friend the leaves aren’t new, but rather of previous actions they are a causality.

I think the world is a path of broken twigs, slowly mingling with the dried leaves.

The twigs simply broken ambition of a has-been great oak tree.

Sometimes you chance upon fellow travellers and think they are the reason,

The reason that path led you on, your final destination.

But you’re forgetting that the path isn’t chance or destiny,

Nor is it your guide to validation.

It simply is a broken swathe of abandoned botany.

A path strewn of dried leaves and broken twigs.

Not your identity.

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