My life is a buggy track on a gravel road,
one among many, the lines crisscrossing
until mine are lost among the ruts and crescents of horseshoes,
a map of wandering paths,
each one a fragment of a grander story
etched in dust and stone.
In the early light, shadows stretch long and thin,
marking the passage of moments
unnoticed, yet inevitable,
like breaths drawn in the hush of dawn,
silent testaments to our fleeting presence.
The road stretches out before me,
each turn a mystery, each fork a decision
carved by the weight of wheels and the press of time,
where every choice leaves a mark,
markings in the soft, pliant earth of existence.
Mortality whispers in the rustle of leaves,
the creak of old wood,
the sigh of wind through trees,
reminding me that each step forward
is a step closer to the horizon,
where the road meets the sky and disappears.
Existence is a fragile thing,
a spider’s web glistening in the morning dew,
beautiful, intricate, yet easily torn,
and meaning is a quest,
a search for threads that bind
the seen to the unseen, the lived to the dreamed.
In the twilight, the track grows dim,
the labyrinth of lines fading into night,
and I am but a traveler,
tracing ephemeral patterns,
seeking, perhaps, the echo of a purpose
in the intertwining paths
of this graveled expanse.
Slow Mover 