From the bottom of
my soul, it’s calling me home, but I can’t quite go, not now, not
yet, not while I still owe fate some debt, some good or some penance,
enduring itself a sentence, just pray time left isn’t held against
my records. Sadness tries to well, up like a spring, but it has no
coil, no ties to heart or its strings, just an empty vaporous thing,
absent substance from sky or soil. Sleep’s not far off, maybe so
too dreams, here’s to this Road, with the best yet unseen.
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