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The Traveler

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I am lost.
Somehow I forgot to bring a map with me
when I set out on a path of good intentions
and, instead, found a clearing of self-sabotage.
The sun peaks through a canopy of high hopes
into a field of misplaced affection
and desires left unspoken.
Beneath the low-lying shrubs, I’ve found a layer
of promises meant to be kept, promises that were
brushed aside by the wind and forgotten about
in the undergrowth. Here I have found not two paths,
but a dozen or more, branching out in any direction,
each hoping to lead me from my purpose like a sin
I can’t help but be curious about.
Should I risk one of these trails? Or stay where I am,
already lost to the point of desperation?
Is there really a better place for one to be lost?
Are there varying degrees of lost one can feel,
or is there only the glaring difference between
lost and found?

Or do those words even hold a different meaning anymore?

I have traveled to the edge of the world only to learn
that wilderness looks a lot like civilization,
if perhaps a bit less wicked than the latter.
Maybe found is a state of being I don’t need anymore.

I’m lost and I don’t think I care much to be found.




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