The paths I have trodden,
Were never made of gold.
Old sins littered the ground,
And I found that foul regrets
Blocked my way.
Mostly,
My route was paved with lead,
Instead of my feet
Tripping lightly,
They dragged,
Snagging on the dead roots
Of my desires.
Along these paths,
No views of flowers of beauteous hues,
Blackened blooms
And withered branches
Brushed my face.
In place of sunlight,
I met darkness,
Storm clouds were my only friends.
Now my time is almost done,
And I face my doom,
I can find room
For sorrow,
But,
Tomorrow,
I think my feet,
Will lead me in the same direction.
My path,
Leads me to hell.
It's just as well,
You let go of my hand,
While you can.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
