Fifth of eight.

Let it be... Along a cobblestone trail

10 - 22 - 16 


Standing, staring into the misty grey yonder

Ground clouds swirl about my bruised ankles 

I start upon the path damp and cold

On the mysteries awaiting I allow myself to ponder 


Upon every step brings along the side

To cut the fog is a shattered vase

Of reason for of its breaking 

I cannot say why


I tread ever so silently 

Quivering and collected 

Quietly climbing the cold cobble crossway

Upon my struggles my mind reflected


In the fog stood corroded hollows

Their centers have grown rotten

Owls stare quietly watching 


They know what I do not

With what I must anticipate

The further I go the closer I am not

So I quicken my pace and do not hesitate 


A golden door was left ajar 

So I entered since I had come thus far

Allow me a moment for next I'll relate

The amercement that befell me beyond the Golden gate


Author's Note: This was more of a filler poem for the next one. Read on to see what lies beyond the gate.

Submitted: November 24, 2021

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