Oh, Ms. Believer-Poems

I, a Traveler.

I, a weary traveler.
Brittle boned,
Bare skinned,
And lips chapped.

I, a weary traveler.
Starved stomach,
Mad mind,
And exhausted.

I, a weary traveler.
Must meet the destination have I,
Only from a place unbeknownst to all,
Save I.

I, a weary traveler.
Have a path to choose,
From two congruent roads in that,
I may die.

I, a weary traveler.
May choose path right,
Where overgrown vines are serpents,
And powder-white moths become bullets.

I, a weary traveler.
May choose path right,
Made of gravel to slice my bare skin,
And treacherous as far as eye could see.

I, a weary traveler.
Did choose path left,
One with far less serpents breathing fire,
And far less bullets ricocheting off trees.

I, a weary traveler.
Did choose path left,
Made of cobblestone and few stray stones,
Greatly softer on my bare skin.

I, a weary traveler.
Have seen the paths merge,
Into gravel and bullets and serpents,
O, bring me my grave!

I, a weary traveler.
Have witnessed the roads diverge again,
Into blissful path left,
Compared to torturous right.

I, a weary traveler.
Have seen storms,
Booming thunder and hot lighting,
With sickening grey rain.

I, a weary traveler.
Have seen the sun,
Light salvation from darkness,
I have become more than satisfied.

I, a weary traveler.
Have even seen rainbows,
Red and yellow and orange,
O, straight from nirvana!

I, a weary traveler.
Have seen will worn thin,
Have seen flowers flourish,
Have seen numbness finely.

I, a weary traveler.
Am nearing my paths end,
Eighteen years to cross,
Accomplished.

I, a weary traveler.
Have seen plenty strife,
In fact, my glass is overflowing,
O, I am not finished!

I, a traveler.
Am paving a path of my own,
One soft as foam on my bare skin,
And a land of bliss to two evils.

I, a traveler.
Have made a name for my own now,

I, a traveler,
Have finally found home, now.

(Three cheers for metaphors and hasty 2:00 am writing! It isn't that great but the idea was there)