If you have seen it or traipsed on it,
You would have long since observed
That it's not paved with slabs of deception;
It’s a simple, lean road, fleshed and naked

It blends well with culture and the harmony
Of peace, curved effortlessly on its western incline.
It clutches at its vegetation when storms pervade
The earth

It’s neither lonely nor frequented by
Vagrant feet; it’s best walked at sunrise and sunset,
When matters of the heart and the heart of
The matter collide but don’t explode or

Tear to bits tissues that bind them together.
It nurses the ancient ambience that heals
Broken lungs once your hands are clasped
Behind you as you trespass open vaults

It’s up-the-hill and down-the slope,
Bordered by earnest trees and vigilant foliage —
A grand, brittle stairway to hidden portals,
A seesaw hinged between lowlands and high hopes.

And does it matter what it actually looks like,
As long as the haggard crossroads upon it merge
With floating realms of reality —
As long as it’s the road I frequent?