The forkéd road does seemingly present
The choice to leave untrodden one sole path
As though a road were from the heavens sent
To map our storied lives from first to last.
But human hands do form these thoroughfares
Though grandeur does this simple fact obscure
Geography is but one pathway there
Direction does not travels’ joy ensure.
The heart’s a trusty compass, for it knows
That true North can be skewed by magnets’ roam
But soon it rights itself and quickly shows
That ‘tis the inner journey that leads home.
Tread on, and know, ‘tis not the way you take
But steady strides that leave doubt in their wake.
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