Easier Said Than Done

 

I shall continue on then,
cresting hill or tall mountain,
taxing lungs and chapping cheeks,
ascending meaning everything,
backing down not an option?

Or, is it better to trip and fall the bogs,
leading to the depths of a black forest,
hands and face torn by nettles,
teeth clenched in firm resolve
even though I’d like to spit and quit?

I’m not sure which is best, or who decides.
 

There are no forks in the road,
Mr. Frost, and I can’t see beyond
the end of my nose, the hurt in my heart,
the silence killing my ears,
and all my good sense is lost.