The Path

The crumbling path is filled with thorns,
No stones turned ahead can reform.
Sharp tongues, twisted mouths peer from the grounds
And dogged martyrs foam to life as angry hounds
On this path you tread alone.
There's no shame in fearing the cold.

Eyes look back in horror to find the world looking back with cold eyes,
Earth turned to ash unable to be tredded upon,
Smoke slithering violently through the air and then dies,
Land is gone. The hunt goes on.

The tiny beats of many humming tongues swarm,
Wing-beats as shallow as they are warm,
The pace quickens before you but yet you cannot run,
Time has slowed this time and there's nothing to be done.

The path never really ends,
It never falters,
Breathes die at each passing bend
And reality alters itself accordingly.

There is no escape here.