The Path

The path within winds slow and tremulous,
pushing ever forward, following animal tracks,
lined with needled thorns of doubt and fear;
stained with tears of wine which drown lost facts.


The lamp is lit to cast ephemeral, distant shadows,
flickering darkly at the breast of sorrowed dreams,
washing joyful in that sweep of untamed grief;
so do we make our way, as grace does lightly keen.

The heart is held accountable in art's broad palm,
with whispered prayers to seek what has been lost,
until is found in strange and distant foreign lands,
the door which leads to life at all and any cost.

Inspired by words on:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Michael-Leunig-Appreciation-Page/175074566012104?fref=ts



 The path to your door
Is the path within,
Is made by animals,
Is lined by thorns,
Is stained with wine,
Is lit by the lamp of sorrowful dreams,
Is washed with joy,
Is swept by grief,
Is blessed by the lonely traffic of art,
Is known by heart,
Is known by prayer,
Is lost and found,
Is always strange,
The path to your door.