The Road From Roots Hall

Roads,
the vast confused winding,
lone walkers searching
for something they can’t find.
Some go on to the end,
their end,
but the road
has no end.
The man in front of me
must know something?
Is it like
accepting something
against his will?
No exclamation of annoyance
is heard by the silent seeker,
roaring echoes of thunder
stir his mind to a past,
turned away from.
The mind that was once
housed by the skin
of a smooth forehead
now wrinkled
by the dust of travel.
Men and women on roads,
seconds tick away
into the chaos of tyrant time.
Does a divine smile
linger over the setting sun,
or do the birds
that still fly over Roots Hall
mock at the futility of it all?

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