In the ever changing microcosm
Of being neither here nor there, is
The delicious lingering of the dice in hand,
As the Caster stops, mid-sweep
Releasing them into the game of Life,
Where the paths are all untaken, untrod
The stories as yet untold, songs unsung.
There is a vantage point at the fork in the road,
Where the Wanderer pauses, to survey.
And possibilities dance just out of sight.
The rustling of the leaves brings promise,
Of fruits untasted, bogs uncrossed.
Both futures, to the mind’s eye,
Appear vividly unclear,
Sometimes blending into one…
While other avenues glimmer in the twilight
Just beyond perception.
Pause, a moment, Wanderer.
Rush not headlong to the moment of Choice.
Savour the richness of not knowing.
Wonder at the gentle interweaving of realities,
The endless warp and weft of the unknown,
As the hues of possibility blend into the tapestry.
For though knowing brings comfort to the Wanderer,
It brings death to Adventure.
And is not Life itself, an Adventure?
For what is Choice,
But the walling-up of an avenue?
The road not taken is overgrown
And hung with spider webs and Mysteries
The air is thick with the uncertainty of Romance,
Dusty stones to be dwelt on, another day…
And the buzzing insects of the path ne’er trod,
For though it grows fainter, the Call of the Other persists,
The primeval wail of the Forgotten.
And poor linear Time,
Can ne’er answer that Call.
Hark then, Wanderer, as the Time of Choice approaches,
Linger a moment longer,
For it is in the Call that is ne’er answered,
That the quickening heart of Life itself, beats.