The Roads: A Poem

The roads people travel upon lead to all points of the globe.

Dark and painted they allow men to be free to go with ease and speed.

But they are also constrictors.

The same road must be travelled upon by all.

No deviation, no slowing, no stopping.

Just the speed of life, pounding over the miles.

More life happens in one mile long stretch of roadside than does in all the miles of cold hard pavement.

Woodland mothers, birds, insects, thousand of plants in that one mile stretch all live and die without being noticed by the masses of men.

Rare is it that a traveler must stop on that one mile of roadside, perhaps for repairs or the like.

They may notice a tree or a critter at that time. They may not.

After repairs, off they go, without a second thought.

The multitudes of man are compelled to attempt worthless, mindless, trivial tasks to "survive".

The creatures' tasks are pure survival..Nothing trivial or wasted time.

Man could learn from these insignificant creatures.

Doing only what is necessary to survive, doing only what is right.

Slowing the pace of life down to its essential elements.

The roads are asphalt rivers of imprisonment.

Locking us to a narrow view of life.