The Path
Bright Red sweating wagon
With its dirty dusty decay from the long journey
Treading in the muddy dark land
Carrying natural pieces of the past, in its rigid black rubbery tires
As I attempt to look out to the almost un-fogged windows
Created from the lost hot breath from my panting lips
I wait in the bitterly cold vehicle
With my shivering body creating a movement of the car
Yet the keys lay inches away from the ignition
Rather aimlessly resting on my chilled lap
As I put my frosted small fingers on the rough ripped leather door handle
I vacantly realize I have gone to far
I open the heavy door, and take my first step on the slippery soiled earth,
Making a slush sound
Creating a pain in my ears from the unwelcoming weather
My lids close, and the thoughts of my next move appear instantly
Though my body stays statue still
Because there is no turning back
No reason to take these unlocking keys
Into the ready ignition
To only return me to the pitch-black path, I had once traveled
Still standing, with feet molding the icy ground
As I clasp my crippled hands together
Fingertips barely touching the roof of my cold chin
Eyes remaining shut
With sickled tears slowly leaving my face
I begin to hope for better days
Hoping that maybe if I keep treading further
Ill be tracing down a new path
A glistening bright path
That will help me forget my unbearable, unwanted past