Cobwebs and crowfeet

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

 

 

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