The lines on my face- are evidence
Of roads traveled, choices made
Not necessarily always mine- or finished
Some just appear for seemingly no reason
Thus, is the punitive signature of time, itself
But like inked words of any frayed book
They tell stories, some depicting for chapters
And yet others are much more subdued
Like a fog adrift at twilight along an ocean
Ghostly implications, purposely left hanging
While some are obvious, others are darker
Not all stories can be considered informative
Riddled with clues, thereby providing answers
Leading naive readers off a precipitous cliff
Some stories in books are merely like art
Subject to interpretation by individual readers
But always predicated on their true motive
Of what they hope to find or dismiss- sneeringly
Relying more on conventional restraints, idioms
Too afraid to learn or accept any new truth
Deceptively veiling their true inadequacies
Because they got lost, or really have no clue
Unable to comprehend the author’s thoughts
And yet, none of the lines alone can define them
In pictures- painted inside visiting minds by words
Greater is the challenge of peregrinating a heart
To appreciatively understand the trails and tales
Of roads life created or discovered by a person
Experiencing them unblemished in whispers
Risking knowledge lived with them from…inside out
Poet of the Light © 2019
Well crafted.
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Thank you my friend. I hope you are doing well.
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