The road was steep and narrow —
not an easy one to challenge,
to jump over slippery stones
and run, always run, don’t walk!
And though the stream was shallow
I tired... but didn’t let go — I quickened the pace,
and it was the running,
the constant zigzagging motion
that outfoxed them all
turning me into a crafty and agile deceiver.
Ah... but I tired. One day I tired,
and I paused to rest,
to breathe, to sleep a while and then
I couldn’t run any more.
It hurt too much to pretend.
I’m tired. I need to sleep.
Some have dreamed a different ending.
They said my vision was narrow,
I could have tried, really tried.
“Look at her. She can sleep and yet pine
for her whimsical claims to glory.”
Poets! What dreamers they are!
Whimsical fantasies? Narrow vision?
What a laugh!
What is it their muse has whispered to them
about blazing summers in the city,
or shuffling through freezing snow?
I know that walk. I’ve walked it.
I know the self-deception.
No sense in invoking poetic insights,
this narrow road came to an end.
No more running, no more hurts,
No more tears to shed.
My day is done!
And I watch the twilight as it dies,
and I see my lazy, lazy dreams,
slipping by me like driftwood in a stream.
