The Crooked Road :: shallenemcgrath :: Original Poetry

The Crooked Road

I walk the crooked road

The only crooked thing

That a crooked walk could bring

To the scene of a crooked crime

Without the wind of wooden worry

–This turning of a dime

Made by the hand of man.

Exempt—

The trees that stand –straight and tall

But, even they will fall

Bent, broken, and rent

At man’s crooked wrath

Along his crooked path.

I walk and wonder

How to right this crooked plight

And tend the treaded scar

That mountain mud does mar

And walk without a print –to somehow know

A blanket of pristine and perfect snow—

Without the crooked cut, or the crooked sign

That is the brand of my God –who is less kind

Who cannot speak as wood and stream

But only become it in a dream

And awaken in attempt to stitch –and seam this crooked itch

With this crooked pen, and this crooked line