The cost of frontiers

Sorrow, my bitter friend

you crease my bent and broken brow

make my heart a waiting pool,

to songs of nowhere longing

each cry, this beckoning fool.

 

Everyday a single path

down the loss and ever growing

a reach just from my grasp

no path beyond the woods.

Perhaps to sway the oceans

of a never ending wade,

where the depths are nowhere deep

and the stars forever weep;

along riddles of sky

over ridges and mounts

under valleys on high.

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