Poetry · Writing

The Road Less Traveled

the high road they called it.

Speaking theory and false

idols they called it.

Beseeched a cast off to the

watery bin marked Wilson.
Ruling side by side on an island.
Heavenly winds cross along

their finger tips. Cool waves

gently brush against their timid

hides. Ooh paradise tasted like 

Margarita’s.
Until the waves ran dry. The wind’s

blades cut like a guillotine.
Window showers pass the road

only to find themselves on

an island.

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