Here lies a path
That is well trodden,
And yet,
Almost a secret.

It is not that those who walk
Down its beaten track,
Are reticent story tellers;
As with any other collective
Of human beings,
This one too has those that are wont
To tell their story,
As repulsive as it might seem.

No, it is not that
There is a dearth of story tellers,
Or their stories –
If is more so,
The nature of these fables,
That keeps the curious minds
At a two arm distance.

So when it is that one strays
In the course of life’s journey,
Onto this exacting path,
There’s a momentary blindness,
Which warped in a time bubble,
Presents itself as endless.
Beyond this stretch of darkness,
Lies a vagueness of getting used to –
Getting used to the grey walls
Of towering, lifeless trees,
That crowd into the path of vision;
To the damp ground beneath
And the bleakness of the overhead skies.

Yet for all the drudgery,
There does lie ahead,
A path –
As unappealing as it may seem,
It does perhaps,
Lead to someplace, or something,
That isn’t as bleak as the beginning.