Deep in the thicket, wandering eyes deciding not:
just drifting empty glass, left dim by an apathetic adonai.
Oh Frost, must I travel this road? Or that?
I cannot decide between these grassy groves.
I wish that clarity would find itself welcome,
for this chaos is an unwanted pest.
Yet it is this madness that helps me see
the world as it really is: a shadow, a saint, a silent prayer.
A split in time, a strangled neck,
stops me from observing myself,
Oh, how I wish to be blind!
Woven in-between doubt and fear,
are these streams of salt water tears:
“Do you believe my pestilent nightmare was
of empty air and some such magic that deceives?”
Vindicate me, vacant eyes, with your answer yes.
But you see, you do see, no tourists do travel these roads.
No, only those who know, burden this empty space.
Yes, this vivid map of lonely highways
Is only for those who are seeking hell.
Provided windows into the past,
of smaller days and fresher air.
The Voice still canters around that place,
Still then a Shepherd to the lost,
But where the sweet melody moves now,
the wind only knows.
I press on against this thin thin glass,
but Oh! Sand drips on and it will not break!
Until it shattered and ceased.
Collect my soul strewn among
shards of soft whispers and dense approval.
So Frost, may we travel together now?
Perhaps we will reach another fork,
and then we shall split our ways,
for you will go the way less traveled,
and I will follow some stranger footprints.
