Copyright © 2000 Benjamin A. Shelton
This poem is part of a collection of very old poems I wrote when I was fairly young. As a result, the vocabulary and general tone of the poem may not be up to par with many of my newer works.

It is a winding path of change,
A path whose corners are so sharp
That one cannot see beyond the turn.

It is a path of mystery,
At times shrouded by a great fog
And hidden by distance.

It is a path of our own doing,
From the time we are born
Till the time we depart…

It is the path of time,
The winding realm of the unknown,
The journey into the blackness of the future,
Hoping to find a door or two.

We involuntarily travel this path;
Day by day, we make our decisions,
Effectively changing the turns ahead.

It is a dynamic path,
One whose corners are sharpened
By our tongues and desires.

It is a changing path,
A path whose distance is of fate and will,
A distance unknown until the last step taken…

It is the daily path of travel,
With great ruts worn in it in places…
And other places remain untouched.

It is the path of time,
A path where the ruts are worn by those before us,
A path where the smoothness is untouched.
It is a path of our making by choice.