The real journey is

Into the overgrown

Forest of your own

interiors, wildly ridden

With unbidden creatures

Scampering across the

Ever present spaciousness

Forgotten from birth.

The furthest location

Reached in life is

Measured not by applause

So much as by silence,

not in meter so

much as by fire;

three-fourths of such

Drudgery is the feared

Onset of pain that never

Comes, the rest is spent

Loosely in a half-

Stupor’d daze, evidently

unaware of what

Unknown shadows are

Cast underground

Pronouncing warnings

In no small octaves, but

be here now, and without

fear, for the sun’s wings resides

In perfect tranquility just

beneath the epidermis of

The hardened mind’s frame.