Way(ra)s Of The Past
There is a road, cold
as stark nightmare's mane, weaving
a winding-sheet memory
choke-tight, wringing the eyes
dry, smearing the heart, called the past.
There is a tollway
never cheated by moonlight
never unwatched by day. Don't
squander your soul walking
down it; the past collects its debts.
posted for dVerse Poets
Images: Footsteps, 2016, © Joshua Philip Hart
Photograph of the Author, 1956, photographer unknown, Public Domain