One more time

The last two weeks I’ve posted parts of a poem. Here is part one, and over here is part two.

And now the third and final part.


(Being part 3 in Walking)

I didn’t choose a path in life. A road, no matter its condition,

is a noose.  I can’t speak on the lonely highway,

nor can I tell the aim of its pursuits. I have yet to see

the grass on the shoulder on the road. The rocks there are

markers for the damned. The dead give a warning all acknowledge yet

it’s meaning is muted. No one hears the story of the highwaymen

who lie there, in their granite graves.

A traveler asked me about my journey

and only spoke of his own. He was ensnared by his God.

I laughed at his jokes and he became uneasy

as he tried to tell me, in high speech,

that I have chosen too many roads,

and thus walk none. He was kind and platonic.

He knows nothing.

I have a map. It has cities and villages

but not a single road or highway.

It is not a how, but a what. This map is the

guide to the those who never go.

It is meant for you