Path

Always the path twists and turns.

Never a straight road so

you can look back and say,

'I've been from there to here.'

You look back and see a bend.

You try and imagine,

'Where was I at the start of the day?'

All this weaving and winding,

conspiring to confound your sense of direction.

Who planned this path?

What convoluted,

tortured mind gave us this?

Why can't the way be straight?

Why, why?

Y is a crooked letter,

Z no better.

By Phil Heang