A poem for you all

[demiurgent]

The Road

Holes in faux leather and canvas
stretched and scrunched and torn
“well worn” my mother would say
sipping tea as she turned away
and closed her window against the cold.
But now I have become old.
My story is untold and unspoken
wrapped up in worn shoe soles
marked with macadam and mud and dirt
blades of mown grass and threads from my shirt
gone progressively bare with wind
with work and sweat, the friction
of a misspent life.
Now I have become old.
The shadows grown bold in the corner of my eye
jumping out when least expected, never there
when I start and turn and fix my stare
turned away from the winding road.
My load seems heavy now, whispering
“stop-stop” and brings
my attention to a million things
I can do right here, and walk no more.
Sitting and sipping at coffee and foam
away from loam and dust and tar
I will not get very far today
“stay-stay” it seems to say
rest here another day
do not stir, do not stray
there is no rush; rest your feet here.
There is no word so sweet as “here.”
Nor so tiresome as “there,”
but there I am meant to be.
The road is not through with me yet.
Though now I have grown old.
My spirit sold bit by bit
in tolls as I make my trip
never growing closer, never reaching
that long sought end
and rest at last.

Comments

[demiurgent.livejournal.com]

One fast note -- don't assume the subject and the poet are the same thing with this one. I'm having a lovely day, thanks.

[freakfest.livejournal.com]

Beautiful.

*hugs* to you, sweetie. Glad you're having a good day.

[demiurgent.livejournal.com]

Thanks. :hug: This got started in a meeting, then kind of grew.