Frost said I should walk the bitter pathway home.
Of course he called it by a grander title,
one requiring imagination,
a vision for solitary adventure.
"The road less traveled by," he wrote,
ringing charms of uncharted change.
He didn't say a think about moon-ghosts howling,
sun-gods spearing stubbed swollen toes.
Nor did he mention that the road not taken's
not really a road at all,
rather a trail of footprints wandering into wasteland
About two miles from the fork.
He could have at least hinted to interested adventurers
that they might invest in a hack saw
to cut through all that weedy prickly brush
he has the nerve to call grass.
But these aren't the kind of details one confides
when trying to sell wimps on cracked crusted wilderness.
To think once I actually thought the man a visionary.
I'll bet he was a coward like me
tricked into buying into his own illusion of
immortality-
Guess I'm the return on that deceit.
Well, it's too late now, seeing that I'm stuck somewhere beyond the bend
(though in my own estimation way left of the better claim)
Where'd I lay that ax?
I suppose anything's better than having to wade back through random woodland
though I'll make a mental note for future reference
that I much prefer chaos of my own design.
Humph.
At least now I know why he sighed
when he finally arrived.