I walked down the path in a wooded place on a Saturday.
It doesn’t matter which day.
Shakespeare declared life is but a stage, so metaphorically speaking my path could be yours and my stream is but your lonely sidewalk winding into nowhere.
When thirst dries the fragrance in the breeze and cool winds knock you to your knees get back up and seek a sail for another dream.
There’s a black cloud hanging over the horizon of tomorrow so let’s reverse our steps and draw the curtain on time for now.
Time the narrator reads is passionately deceiving. Rough seas are inevitable so seek not to sail and travel the other divide.
Less common is the misfortune of time tangled into submission quietly encroached in the dark wood of a prevalent tree.
Find me if you will when loneliness stalks the bitterness in your heart.
I’ll be around the bend on the wooded path by Saturday’s Stream. I’ll share a drink with you, just enough to be on your way back home.
Can you find your way through the audience throngs?
Unfold your hand. I might follow. I can’t promise my will can seek out your way. Promises fade because life’s stage was merely an act in this make-believe play.