Cruel Road
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Not all roads are created equal. Someone said that there's no progress to be made if you're on the wrong road.
How cruel this road: pointing and promising,
lying and leading nowhere.
Bruised, bleeding feet
slog in monotonous ruts
and never suspicion
the insanity. Throngs
gorge at endless tables
and starve, drink
from every cup and
cough dust. They
pursue completeness
but die unfinished,
their last coin invested
in imposters who
leave souls to rustle
like parched fields.
Why, on this road,
is there weariness
after every pleasure?
Why, in every oasis,
does exhaustion bead
on blistered brows? What
is this strange
homesickness under
each roof and choking
on darkness midday?
Copyright © Ted Owens | Year Posted 2022
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