The Road

My fingertips embrace a newspaper story

that serves purpose well as the thing I’ve only

atop my tattered rags that betray the eternal fury

of broken legs and shackled arms

of taking final toll on spent charms

of a man subdued by his cripple knees

of hordes inner demons that

he could only appease

with riches beyond eyes' sight

and things owned no more

illumined by yellow streetlight.

And how tears stray upon my vacant bed

like a frugal refugee to unknown places fled

enkindling visions of gambling gold into lead.

And sometimes people creep close to watch the graves of walking men

throwing hands in desperate plea, hoping pity's voice might call on them

after yellow beams set suits free

to awaken burdens they must bear

before mister moon comes rising high

in the beauty of his olden lair.

And now in their presence the meagre means we possess

decrease in worth

degrading what we have into whatever could be less.

And the sporadic losses we often came to meet

that changed every dwelling

to empty castles cast about our swollen feet.

But today I search for solace in striking azure skies

to mend the broken hearts of not just mine,

but all our broken lives.

And I truly hope for all the sadness He has borne

a place was kept aside

to dull the jagged verge of all these squalid thorns.

So let me take my guitar and busk for dinner

perhaps a final night for the whistling sinner

as the son too made her final bow

behind a far-off horizon

drifting to the time when

my winter’s dawn had awoken,

setting on the narrow path

I should've followed,

the road less traveled

the one I should’ve taken.

-MM