Like the polished shoe on the long road
Knowing that lines will appear. Still you walk
On the bearings that a dream gives. The mountain
Is never too high or rocky, and the whitewater
Is never too torrid. You walk with no polish to paint over
Dust, tan, tiny marks and patches.
And soon your eyes are blood-stained
With dengue shocks. The viruses that impregnate you
And leave you with a little short of vigor
Or lust for life. We call them hard times.
The snake eyes.
And the long road home has no mule or donkey
Or a little compass guiding you. The shoes start to shred
From the weakest links as you hold on to what is precious.
The diary, and the recurring diary entries.
And you finally reach the destination. A swift bout of oxygen
Enters your lungs. A little dance emerges in your step.
A song finds its way in to your chords.
And you finally look back at the road you took
Only to see beautiful wild flowers that you were supposed to smell
Trampled by your own shoes.