Like a tattoo or scar,
she wears the imprints of
my shoe, branded into thin
layers of stone and soil;
Swallowing my company,
as if I were taboo chocolate,
enduring the weight that comes
down hard with each step.
Of course, she rarely has visitors;
sharp coils as if walking on snakeskin,
incessant pebbles snagging my foot,
as skeletal trees extend up and over
like large claws.

Are we ever given the choice;
gazing down each path,
weighing the options as if
buying a new car,
pondering the red as opposed
to silver.
Perhaps we are guided,
blindly by those who walked
the gloomy trail,
or the path cutting through
flower beds;
stepping within their footprints,
so to avoid unconquered obstacles,
like a shoeless man would do in
a foot of snow.

This jagged trail before me has no
imprints to step within,
all have been whisked and
buried beneath fresh layers
of gravel;
much like the emotion that drips
from my hands into her soil.
My fear pouring in gushes,
as I hesitate with each step
as if the slightest movement
would snag a booby trap,
and with cold clutches the trees
would come crashing down,
leaving only my imprints to
soon vanish,
submitting to winds in a
faint dust;
like so many before me.

Richard Charles 07/01
2001
(All Rights Reserved)