There is a long path that leads to a long road, as a young man walks quickly through the streets
and feels the needs to rush for no reason at all.
He passes an older man and scoffs at his easy gait, then whispers a whisper of disgust.
There is a pond they call it “malaria,” a handwritten sign says,
“stay away from there if you know what’s good for you.”
Walking across the wooden bridge, it moans with each step as the beanstalk lady comes racing by
in her never-ending quest of running…
The old man walks slowly yet watches as the young man races
past him and whispers a whisper of disgust.
The old man winces and keeps on going.
The river to the left of the town is racing towards an ocean,
as if searching for freedom in oblivion.
The young man passes the old man, once again, and
wonders how he made it past him.
Listening to his music in a volume was to loud,
he scoffs once again and tells himself, “faster, faster.”
There is a short path that runs parallel to the long path
for about a mile. It leads to the old man’s home
where his Molly is waiting for him to return.
The lane is narrow yet the well is filled with diseases
left by dead animals and the memories that have been discarded
like old newspapers waiting to be recycled into new headlines.
Across the town the boardwalk is filled with Sunday walkers
who slow down the runners and the fast walkers,
causing a traffic jam of pedestrians who are seeking refuge
from world’s gone wrong.
The old man scoffs now, as he stands upon his porch
while his Molly brings him his coffee.
“The young man laughed at me again.”
Molly shrugs, “He’ll laugh again tomorrow. He will never understand
how you have passed him at the pace you
walk at now.” She puts her hand on his shoulder.
“Until he is at your stage in life, where
you are at peace with yourself and the world that has gone wrong.”
He holds her hand and then she says,
“Until he realizes it’s not the world that has gone wrong,
it’s that our perspective was jaded by not knowing enough.
The world has gone right, we just looked at it wrong.”
He smiles takes a sip from the cup and says, “Thank you.”
They walk inside hand in hand as the young man passes by.
He is listening to loud music yet he never truly hears the sounds,
understands the lyrics or the instrumental conversations.
He is running through a beautiful town yet he never sees the sights.
He is judging and scoffing yet never truly understands it all.
There will come a time… When the rooster will wake him
and the sounds of life will fill his head. When
the voice inside his soul will speak and he will listen.
Then he will whisper a soft whisper of gratitude in prayer.