What do you know about roads?
About moving on?
For as long as I can remember
you've been planted in this one spot.
On this one lawn
so long that you've grown roots.
Sprouted branches, feathered leaves.
You've made your home in a forest of trees
and you tell me
that the path I've taken is dangerous?
Like I haven't stayed with you to make a life for us only to find that you have no problem
letting me do the weeding and the pruning
and the sowing and the hewing?
And you tell me of your dreams.
The ones that you see in the night sky,
the ones that remain unreachable
because you will not give them a name.
Your roots have become chains
and you are not afraid of your bondage.
You talk of progress
and of the damage it's done to the forest
all the while doing nothing to stop it.
A validation by silence.
And then you speak to me.
And tell me that I am the reason for your roots,
the reason for the lack of movement.
I am the reason those dreams remain so far off,
an intangible thing like the stars.
And entity that is as close to you
as Mars is to the earth.
I caused this, you say.
Made you stay, kept you here.
You tell me I am your
stumbling block and downfall.
So I say,
"if that's the case, why don't you move on?"
SK
