I once stepped out an open door
in some far distant past.
At first the path seemed barely there,
in this landscape new and vast.
One step lead to another
as steps are prone to do,
leading from familiar and mundane
to vistas bold and new.
Often storms assailed me
and I huddled lost and cold,
but then my skies would clear
into a sunrise of beckoning gold.
Some hills turned into mountains
swept by bitter gales,
while others were cloaked with flowers,
and soothing forest trails.
Phantoms flickered around me
but they did not stay long.
They vanished in the distance
as I sang my lonely song.
With wonders to distract me
I would sometimes lose my way,
and sit, crying quietly,
then move on another day.
Time often seemed to change,
and lose chronological coherence,
often speeding through the days;
sometimes held in abeyance.
Faces flashed, and words drifted by,
no logic, just confusion.
I was not sure if this was real
or just a strange illusion.
One day the road became less clear,
its call was less demanding:
the lure of the path was less profound,
no longer so commanding.
I rested now, more frequently;
less able to endure,
when there, in the peaceful valley below,
I saw an open door.
