Striving for a change from
My milquetoast existence,
I walked down the road less traveled.
Along its overgrown ways and
among its many tangles of weeds
And words, I found cast aside
Dreams, neglected loves, and
The once-shining eyes of The Poet.
I took pause at these,
Marveling at their purity and
The things that could be viewed through them:
Passion, desire, reason, death,
Love, pain, joy, and hate.
I marveled at The Poet's eyes
For but a moment before reverently
Tucking them into my already-full pack.
What had made The Poet leave this track
For the track of the world?
Why had he spurned the gift of his eyes?
The answer lay ahead of me upon
The paths of the road less traveled:
The life of a visionary is a lonely existence, indeed.
--C.R.E.
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