speaking metaphorically, the road less traveled, wasn’t the one less trampled upon
it didn’t have a gallimaufry of stubborn vegetation nor the nuances of a lone melancholy poem,
puddles, bundles of them and boot shaped, huge,hideous and distinct.
they had life growing in them, in the murky waters they contained,
and they were hard to miss,
easier to step on will be more precise.
but on the contrary , they carried something the surrounding virgin earth didn’t.
they had stench of determination,
the stains of hope
it was as if you could just see in the waters,
by the burlesque of light
that these happened to be tread upon with fearsome courage,
no, not wrath, not rebellion,
just some eccentric, unusual courage
enough to send shivers to my spine,
to send me running back to my safe shelters of mediocrity.
see, That is what’s wrong with these such roads,
they leave you with filthy feet as souvenirs..
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