the road is only something we made.
the path is only what we crave.

i keep coming back,
to feet, to walk the well trod path.

oh Spirit growing ripe,
to be plucked by Death
from the Tree of Life.

not much unlike,

Earth. Sunning on celestial vine.

this circling in time, appears to mind, a line.

not this, not this,
said for the hundred trillionth time.