The Way
Will it come or will it not?
The day when the joy becomes grief be comes small?
Great when the day that I have been driven forward into a unknown land.
The path grows steeper,
The air colder and sharper.
A wind from my goals stirs the strings with expectations.
Still the question;
Shall I ever get there?
There where my life is a clear pure note.
Will If I never measure the height of a mountain, until
I have reached the top.
Then I will never see how low it was.
So he who keeps his eyes fixed on the far way will find his right road.
Copyright © Kimberly Hunter-Mcniel | Year Posted 2007
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment