The Journey

The human journey.

In the vastness of existence
Everybody has a destiny;
They have a path that has their marks,
And they carry their own face.
On their shoulders are buckets
Filled with unsolved problems
They pick up on the road.
Slowly they're weighed down,
Stressed until they can no longer walk.
The pressure becomes so much
That the clay bursts at their neck.
They are cut in the heart by the shards,
And these wounds even time cannot repair.
They are drenched in the substance,
The same everyone must bear;
It overcomes and drowns them
And blinds them in their journey.
So that when they come upon a fork,
When the single road separates
And becomes two personalities,
When they are indistinguishable in look,
But go two entirely different directions,
The men wet with their guilt and grief
Cannot see for which place they are meant.
For them it becomes a guessing game
With their eyes clouded by the mists of failure,
They turn upon the path
That seems the least rough.
While they move on
With new buckets on their shoulders,
And more black water pouring into their depths
From an unwelcomed storm of ash,
They whistle as merry a tune as they can summon,
For what sense is there
In making a hard road even harder?
But beneath their feigned easiness,
Every man will question.
It is in man to question everything about his person,
Even whether the buckets are buckets at all,
Or perhaps they're an illusion.
Perhaps they are set there by an invisable man.
Oh, if I could only blame it on that, they think.
The reailty is evident, however:
For every storm that comes with rain
Something must be responsible for dealing with it.
And men are just a part of mother earth,
And they are given their share of her turmoil.
The ground becomes more rocky as they pass
Face after face in the mud by the sides,
Dropped by those who have given up long ago;
By those who have walked this path before.
Yet, amongst the stones,
There are footprints in the dirt
That mark an unfathomable determination
To make it to the smoother parts of the land.
Perhaps I will just follow in his footsteps.
But the rain has filled their impressions,
And you only encounter more of your already burdens
When you do not think for yourself;
When you do not choose your own steps in life.
So, instead, the man will learn
From where the steps have gone,
And walk alongside them,
Overstepping obstacles as they come.
And even if the buckets break at times,
The strong man will find a way
To instead slowly drain them of their contents,
And make the burden much less.
And in time, when he is used to this road,
He will no longer question his place,
And he will never ask
Where do I belong?
He will know that he belongs
Wherever his footprints have not yet been
For the storm to pass over and fill with its rain,
And for other young men to step beside
And speak for ages of how he walked the road.

Reviews

[happy girl]

That was pretty good. I enjoyed reading it.