Feeling sad and alone,
Lost, without purpose.
Where do I go, and what do I do?
How shall it be when I get there?
Why venture out, why travel at all?
Why not stay here—
Sit, reflect, and contemplate?
Or perhaps that won’t be it.
In my heart I know that won’t be it.
Sit.
Get swallowed up.
Decay.
Waste and wither.
Always this, the how and why:
How should I pick up my feet?
Why should I pick up my feet?
Somewhere, the road is smooth and soft beneath my shoes.
But here, and now,
It’s rocky, rough, and full of ruts.