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Soft like cold fields of stones, covered in lichen,
Quiet like the howl of winter's northern wind,
The ridge gray like steel, the sun a ghost behind the clouds,
I stand wrapped in a black cloak, feel the turn of the earth,
And do you know, that desolation feels like home.
I am the road not taken.
Quiet like the howl of winter's northern wind,
The ridge gray like steel, the sun a ghost behind the clouds,
I stand wrapped in a black cloak, feel the turn of the earth,
And do you know, that desolation feels like home.
I am the road not taken.
Category Poetry / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 50 x 50px
File Size 302 B
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