Poetry

The middle of the road

Along my path one bleak, gray day
I was heard these words to say:

The middle of the road
Is a dark and weary place
Where the trilling of the lark
Is lost amidst the din

The middle of the road
Is a room without a space
To rest one’s heavy head
And see where it has been

Rushing traffic, blinding lights
And many waking, sleepless nights

And in my fit I going kept
There pouring out my sad contempt:

Yes, the middle of the road
Is a noose without a rope
Which cuts into the flesh
But leaves no outward stain

The middle of the road
Is but a shadow of faint hope
That colors that have gone
Might surface once again

Rushing traffic, blinding lights
And many waking, sleepless nights

A sage heard my lament
His advice to me he lent:

The middle of the road
Is a dark and weary place
And one you have to go
To find much wisdom and more grace

Through rushing traffic, blinding lights
And many waking, sleepless nights

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