Found: a poem, down a dusty old path

that leaves have scraped with many final breaths.

When asked why it lingered so, it laughed

and held onto my arm, and hopped with wreaths

of dry, pressed daisies (all the color drained)

upon its golden head. It did not seem

to care that it was lost, that I had dreams

of unearthing it on this long-worn lane.

Alas! It speaks to me, these rambling rags;

the restful whisper fills up the silent,

lonely contours of my Self, in the crags

and vales, rivers all dry and seeming spent.

“Walk,” it says, “and soon you’ll find your way.

The lost are truly blessed when they stray.”

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