No Outlet
Trail worn cold, wears marks, long old.
Life buds season that summer reasons.
Composts fall leaves, blanketing winter,
Tears evaporate, over winding years.
Walk along quiet trails, beside the briars.
Tree rings around, another four seasons.
What doesn’t change, weathers shoe leather.
Dawn brings fawns, twilight the doe grazes.
Millions steps taken, amidst billion more heartbeats.
Evolution float minute elements, revolve decades dust.
Clone twist, repeated moves, dew follow time patterns.
Day in out, slides teeter totter words, to echo - echo.
One sits upon Philosopher’s rock, pondering thy fork.
Left the Eagles Perch, while right goes to Frost’s Lake.
One wanders a path uphill, the other trails downhill.
Both passages return back to thy fork pronouncement.
Beginning point and the ending, travel same conclusion.
For those who enter, must exit, facing the other way home.
That like a book opened, one must close it upon the end.
That one will write within pages that leaf fond memories.
For in the concluding end there is “No Outlet.”
Home of the American HeArtMosphere Poet
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Ron