This poem was written by my oldest son, Nicholas, last night.

 

ROADS

 

Roads of many kind,

Roads that go to many places,

Roads that tell a tale.

 

The one worth traveling,

Is not easy,

Is not clear.

 

It is but a dirt road,

No wider than one car,

And as barren as a desert.

 

All the other roads look so much nicer,

Easier to travel on,

Common sense.

 

It tells me that the clean roads would be easier,

But they lead to cities,

Cities of crime and uncleanliness.

 

Yes, cities of sorrow and despair,

Cities of anger and hatred,

Cities of gloom and darkness.

 

Yet, those are the most traveled roads,

Wide and easy to navigate, and not as barren,

Everybody takes them, so why not I?

 

Yet, the Beaten Road,

It does call me,

But it’s only on the breeze.

 

It’s only a whisper that tells me,

While the other roads clang loud,

Sometimes it hard to tell.

 

Then one car, I see, stops,

A young man gets out,

And leaves his car.

 

And then I see him walk down the Beaten Road,

Struggles, as he does,

To continue down that path.

 

I jump out of my car,

To lend the poor man,

A hand.

 

He looks up at me with sorrow,

And whispers,

“Thank you.”

 

Hand-in-hand,

We head down that Beaten Road,

Leaving behind all pleasures.

 

Because sometimes,

The best places,

Are the hardest to reach.