The Winding Wander

I cannot find the simpler path
each road revolves upon itself
The sky keeps running into the earth
the bordering woods moan in woe

A life upon the broken hay
each wound has died its pang of grief
Upon each murmur of the thoughts
brews the fall of windy streams

Lit beside the baggy eyes
another hour of fuzzy goals
Numbed in vicissitudes of time
and advent of the tomorrow.

• Raman Butta