Walking down my lonely wooded road.
The sun permeating all around.
My path diverges into two, both crying for my load.
All I can hear is the angry sound
Of superiors above using both their mouths.
And everyone else saying their piece,
While everything else cries in its state of inanimation.
Shouting spasmodically, piercing the silent shade,
I try to converge my divided thoughts.
But I can’t for at different feet they’ve been laid;
Two different feet which converge onto differing plots.
My feet while converging from one body, can be independent
But dependent on the whole at once
Just as the paths ne’er would exist without the first.
This bane causes pain which brings tears that stain
Every paper door that leads closer to my West.
This strain sees disdain at the feet of the one I’m lain,
As my blood shod eyes look up crying for his best.
He just smiles reassuringly, but the silence makes me shake.
Crippled with uncertainty, I can only trust his hands.
His hands so fair, though scarred; so light, yet so weighted . . .
by my every former worry and now’s. waiting for me to let go. . .
— Paul M. Burkhart