And when the darkness looms
we wander on our way
deep into the forest
and from the path we stray.
A lonely way to go?
I'm not sure I agree.
No lonelier than a bed
far from the nearest tree.
Not blocked from the agents
of Death or of Decay -
perhaps, we feel the Web
more than the fear of prey
as we stagger that last mile.
This entry was posted in Death, poem, Poetry and tagged Death, Dying, poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
