Ways
O wanderer
will you now pause
to recall
those dark, forked paths,
once taken,
when you walked blindly
over a line
scratched into the sand.
Do you ponder now,
those diverse wrong-ways
that lured you into thickets
of regret -
their thorns still pricking?
At the end of the world
you may arrive at a ghost library,
hoping to delete words
that should never have been printed.
Long after a misunderstanding
becomes a malicious tongue,
clean-up crews hunt this night
for those scars
that have remained half-buried.
Wanderer,
does the rising sun burn your back,
as each finger and toe,
tries to calculate
the knotty measure of ‘wrong',
its long unwinding string
forever unraveling before you?
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