The Road

It is a road. Takes me every morning to the woods.

The road, my road. I feel most at home there.

For no place I stay in is mine. I am always a traveller,

Maybe of the mind. Looking for a permanent address,

One I cannot find. An identity I can call mine is hardly visible.

This world is so temporary; can offer nothing durable.

All just wastes away, faiths, faces, fortunes of every kind.

The distances I have measured, the days I have pleasured;

All the milestones I have left behind. The light of knowledge,

The illumination of recognition, leads only to situations blind.

All places where blisses should lie have shown me only misses.

The road at least promises a place to be arrived at.

It gives at least a hope.