written by: James Walmsley
As I walk down this worried path,
where many a man and beast hath tread.
Pondered at the life I do hath,
wonder at what was weaved by life’s thread
Regret is in the margins of my mind,
for regret is not a thing of the unselfish
It is a thought that is always unkind,
and just a thought that is here to punish.
Walking with my father when just a boy,
whose thread of life is not yet weaved.
With a fertile mind ready for the seed,
that some men are ready to deceive.
The fork in the path is up ahead,
like all forks it offers choice.
The boy will choose in his father’s stead
striven to remember his father’s voice.
And if the path he walks is full of turns,
demons plague him and point the way.
At this time for his father he yearns,
for a hint of where the right path lay.
And when the path runs straight and true,
and there is little else to do.
No longer driven to achieve,
still there are those who would deceive.
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